This Is Life
by Pereybere
Summary: Brennan and Booth discover what life is together and learn that sometimes, happiness comes at a price. It gives me such joy to announce that this story is now complete!
1. The Gesture

**Title: **This is Life

**Rating: **The rating throughout this story varies. In some chapters the rating will be K and in some M. Unedited versions of the saucy bits can be found on my website:

**Disclaimer: **I do now own any of the recognisable characters mentioned in this story. They belong to Fox and the creators of the show. I'm merely borrowing them for my own entertainment purposes – and theirs! ;)

**Summary: **Brennan and Booth discover what life is together and learn that sometimes, happiness comes at a price.

**Categories: **This has everything. Romance, angst, smut, pregnancy, marriage, miscarriage – if you can think of it, it's in here. Although generally speaking, it's a romance story.

* * *

It was Sunday.

She made a conscious point of never working on a Sunday.

Not because she was religious, but because Sunday allowed her the chance to recuperate before Monday.

On Sundays she done laundry, listened to music, read a few chapters and sometimes walked a couple of blocks to Starbucks and drank coffee by the window, watching live people for a change.

But her main priority was sleeping in.

It was ten thirty when her cell-phone rang. "Brennan," she said, turning unto her back, watching as the sunlight cast a long striking white beam across her ceiling. It was a glorious day, in the middle of June.

"Bones, it's me." She closed her eyes, stomach knotting. Three words, and her day off was ruined. Shit. Why had she answered at all? "You there, Bones?" She sighed.

"What's wrong, Booth?" He was quiet for a long time, the sound of only his breath concerned her. Seeley Booth always had something to say. What corpse would be _that _bad? Shit. She really should learn the art of screening.

"I was thinking about your parents. Like you said. I…" he paused again, and suddenly she wasn't thinking about work. "I know how important it is for you, to find out what happened. I have a day off… and I was going to head down to the FBI Archive… and see what I can dig up. I was wondering," he paused again, "do you want to come?"

She was stunned. So much for working. This was different and she was touched. He had not mentioned her parents since she gave him the folder. She hadn't been angry, though. Booth was a busy man and even today, she was surprised he'd use his day off to aid her. To help her.

"Booth…," she sat up, brushing her hair away from her eyes. "I would love to. I… thank you." The awkwardness melted into compassion, and even companionship. "Really," she added, "thank you, Booth." She felt him smiling at the other end. Although, not the outrageously flirtatious grin he normally reserved for jest or even just getting what he wanted. His smile was gentle. Maybe even appreciative.

Throwing the covers aside, she slid out of bed, resisting the urge to stretch and groan. "I'll pick you up about twelve?" Booth asked.

"Yeah, okay. Where are you Booth?" Brennan flicked her stereo on as she walked past, filling the room with the melodic sound of Tibetan music. Booth laughed at her taste, saying she ought to listen to 'the good stuff'. But cultures and sounds fascinated her.

"I'm still in bed, Bones. Jesus, it _is_ Sunday." He was back to normal, now that the discomfiture has ceased. She pressed her head against the window, watching the street below. "I suppose you've been up since dawn? Studying remains from yesteryear?" She smiled, her cheeks flushed. He thought she was a workaholic.

Turning away from the window, she sighed, feigning annoyance. "Sunday is a day of rest, Booth. And you just woke me, actually. I sleep in on Sundays." Booth chuckled – the sound gruff and in a bizarre way, sexy. As though he were flirting with her. Again.

"Really? Jeez, this relationship _could_ work," he joked. She rolled her eyes, pouring herself a glass of purified water.

"Twelve o'clock then?" Temperance asked, eager to change the subject of Booth and relationships. It had been a long time since she'd heard any mention of Tessa – she was pretty sure Booth had broke it off and in the office there was much speculation as to why. Angela suspected Brenna herself was the sole factor in the break-up.

Booth yawned. "Yeah. Do you want me to bring lunch? The sandwich vendor in the FBI building sells toxic waste." She smiled.

"Cesar salad and French dressing. Not so many olives, Booth," she added. He groaned, the sound muffled by what she assumed was his pillow.

"I was going for tacos and fries, Bones," he said. "Stupid women," he added. She pretended to be indignant. "Twelve, Bones. Don't keep me waiting while you… do your hair or something."

"When have I ever-"

He was already gone. Damn infuriating man! His attractiveness was the only reason she didn't hate him.

Well, maybe not. He did genuinely care about her, he was dedicated to his job and to the discovery of the truth. Underneath the façade of boyish cockiness, Booth was really a very decent man. And _that's_ what she hated. That she couldn't hate him.

Turning her music louder, to drown her thoughts, Brennan tried to calm herself by pretending she was on a Tibetan mountain, meditating, relaxing – thousands of miles from Washington. Thousands of miles from Booth.

Damn it! There he was again.

Maybe she needed different music.

Her phone trilled again, and she snatched it up, barking her name through the line. There was a long silence.

"Sweetie…? Are you alright?" Angela's concern never ended. The girl thought Brenna's life was going to collapse at any moment.

"I'm fine. What's up?" Temperance turned the stereo off altogether. The music wasn't helping anyway.

"Have you looked outside today? It's glorious. The guys and I are having lunch and you're coming," Angela said, determined and not likely to be dissuaded, either. Temperance ran her fingers along her CD cases – a collection that had taken years to make, contemplating the titles.

She had sounds from dozens of cultures around the globe. She liked the tunes from Mumbai and Ecuador the best.

"I can't," Temperance said, turning away from the cases. "I have already made plans." The silence was longer this time.

"Oh no… Bren… not another dodgy guy again?" Brennan rolled her eyes.

"No, Angela. I've made plans with Booth. We're goi-"

"Booth? Wow… _really_?" Angela had been speculating for months, now. Temperance found it funny normally, but today it just frustrated her that everyone believed there was something going on. Booth hadn't been hold her about his son. Nothing was going on. Not now. Not ever.

"He's looking into my parents. We're going to the FBI archives," she said. "It was nice of him to offer, especially on his day off. I can't back out." Angela chuckled.

"Oh I wouldn't want you to, sweetie. You enjoy your afternoon with that hottie now, won't you?" Temperance sighed.

"Ange…" she warned. Her friend bid her a chirpy goodbye, disconnecting the call with something of a laugh in her tone. Brennan left her phone on the coffee table, making her way to the bathroom, imagining that Angela would be relaying the story to Hodgins and Zach over their lunch. Zach would listen aptly, wondering how Booth did it with the girls and Hodgins would make crass comments that were totally inappropriate and one hundred percent Hodgins himself.

Showering and dressing while still distracted, Temperance found herself thinking about Booth again. His presence in her office had become frequent, lately. Sometimes, when he wasn't even required to be there, he called in, meddling in her business and prying into the bones she was analysing. He called them Squints, but she believed he liked them, really. He pretended to be a cool FBI agent, but inside, Booth was no less a geek than the rest of them.

At least, she liked to believe it.

At twelve o'clock precisely, when she'd just finished folding her laundry, she heard the honk of a car horn, and knew instinctively that it was Booth. A glance out the window, and the sight of his SUV confirmed her suspicion.

Grabbing her belongings, she took the stairs, because the elevator took too long and he had said not to be late. As she reached the front door, she felt the first prickle of trepidation. What would she find? Would something about her parents be revealed, hidden amongst thousands of dusty boxes and an abundance of newspaper articles?

Booth drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to Guns and Roses, his eyes fixated behind his sunglasses on something in the distance. He glanced at her sideways when she slipped into the passenger side, her palms damp with the anxiousness she felt. "Jesus, maybe you should have slept longer. Are you alright?" Booth asked, turning the radio down, turning to observe her properly. She shifted beneath the weight of his stare.

"I'm fine," she said, running her thumb nail along the edge of her door key. "I've never looked into my parents' death like this before. I'm a little…" She turned her head, watching as the sun glinted, brilliant yellow, through the leafy trees.

"It's alright to be afraid, Bones," Booth said, touching her shoulder. She sighed. "I know that, ordinarily, you're not afraid of very much… but this is different. Surely you know that in your mind?" She nodded mutely. "We don't have to…" He paused mid-sentence, his fingers tightening on her shoulder. Temperance shook her head, tossing brownish red curls about her cheeks.

"I want to. I really want to know." He removed his shades, turning the key in the ignition before turning back to her. She gnawed on her lip.

"We'll find out, Bones," he said. She suspected that he was going to add a promise. His lips parted, as though he had something else to say. But the silence stretched, and the moment disappeared. Instead, he shrugged. "We will." She appreciated that wasn't promising her anything. She appreciated that he was human enough to understand that twenty year old miracles didn't just fall into their laps – and that there was no guarantee they'd find anything in the archives.

He seemed to understand that she needed to be alone with her thoughts for awhile, and turned the music up again, pulling his SUV away from the kerb, doing a U-Turn and heading towards the city.

He hummed, absorbed in the sound of drums and guitars, his window rolled down, the summery breeze making her think of college and times when she was care free. When she was studying anthropology, she had still allowed time for enjoyment. Since joining the Jeffersonian, she'd worked herself to the point of near exhaustion, telling herself that her job was vitally important. Not just to herself, but to others too.

The truth was, she was just afraid to live. Becoming an adult had made her think of security instead of enjoying her life. It was ironic that she'd spent her whole childhood wishing her parents could have enjoyed their life a little more – and here she was, falling into the same foolish trap that so many cowardly people did.

Booth wasn't a coward. Even with his job, he still allowed time for fun in his life. He liked to go bowling. He had trophies. He drank in bars, ate dinner out and went on vacations that weren't related to work.

Glancing at him, she noticed how his jaw worked as he concentrated on something that troubled his mind. When he wasn't wearing shades, she was able to see that Booth had expressive eyes that didn't hide his emotions. However unfathomable his eyes were, he kept all his feelings at the surface.

"Is this song meant to reference your son?" Brennan asked, breaking the silence and gesturing to the stereo. Booth glanced down, his brows marred by a frown.

"Excuse me?" His frown deepened. Temperance sighed, frustrated by how obtuse Booth pretended to be, sometimes.

"Sweet Child of Mine? Is it in reference to Parker?" She found herself often spelling things out for Booth. Things that he understood perfectly but pretended not to. It made her feel idiotic. Another reason why she wanted to hate him.

"It's a rock song, Bones. There's no hidden meaning behind it," he said, shaking his head. Brennan rolled her eyes, turning back to the window. It seemed everyone had hurt inside that they didn't want to talk about. "Just drop it, Bones, okay?" Her head snapped back, her irritation mounting.

"I didn't say anything!" She snapped. "If you have some kind of guilt about your so-"

"I do _not_ have guilt!" Booth pressed his foot against the accelerator, careening along the highway, his lips parted, his breathing harsh and infuriated. "You say you think psychology is bull, but you analyse everything! Sometimes a spade is just a spade, Bones. Sometimes," he paused for breath, "a song is just a song." He jabbed the stereo with his finger and the CD ejected. "See? It's track number nine. I was listening to eight. It's called '_Think About You'_, oh what does it mean, Bones? Am I missing someone?" She lifted a tapered eyebrow skyward, blinking as though he was an idiot.

"Maybe you're missing Parker," she added helpfully, shrugging her shoulders. He slammed his hand against the steering wheel, thrusting the CD into the player again.

"Jesus Christ, Bones!" He was shaking his head, bemused and not quite sure how to answer back. She smiled, turning the music down. "Don't speak," Booth warned, his jaw tight again. She laughed, amused at her ability to irritate the composed FBI agent. He glanced at her sideways again, and the smallest smile played at his lips, too. Maybe he had over reacted, and he probably knew it. Brennan sensed Parker was a touchy subject with her partner.

When it was finally permissible for her to speak again, they had reached the parking garage at the J Edgar Hoover building. Because it was Sunday, the parking lot had only half the usual amount of cars. Brennan noted that when Booth parked his SUV, a woman with glossy blonde hair tapped the window and waved. Booth waved back, turning the engine off.

Brennan assumed she'd leave, but as Booth swung the door open reaching for their lunch, she was still there. "What are you doing here, Seeley? Weren't you meant to be bowling today?" Temperance frowned, rounding the car. Booth was shaking his head.

"Something came up," he said, locking the car. The woman tossed her hair, shaking her head.

"Oh Seeley, you work too much," she said, fiddling with her car keys. "Anything I can do?" She asked, casting Brennan only a cursory glance.

"No," Booth said. "We're fine," he smiled, the charming smile. The woman nodded, and slipped past them, to her car, four spaces down from Booth. When she was out of earshot, he sighed. "I can't _stand_ that woman," he whispered and Brennan smirked. Booth couldn't stand the majority of people. "She's the secretart from the fourth floor." Temperance shook her head.

"Don't you mean secretary?" Booth shook his head, jabbing the button for the elevator.

"No, Bones, I mean secre_tart_." They laughed together, stepping into the elevator car. As the doors breezed shut, Brennan turned her head, watching Booth as he followed the neon numbers ascend.

"Can you stand me, Booth?" Brennan couldn't resist asking the question that troubled her. He did a double take, his jaw momentary slack.

"Bones…" he sighed, his eyes wide. "Of course I can. Just because we have…," he shook his head. "Jesus Brennan." She recoiled. He never called her anything but Bones these days. She expected the novelty to wear off, but it had stuck. It was his name for her, and she didn't mind it anymore. She… liked it. When he called her Brennan, he meant business! "Of course I like you!" The doors breezed open again.

She stepped into the corridor. "I didn't say 'like' Booth," she joked. "Shouldn't I been signing in? Getting a pass?" Booth slipped his hand into his pocket and extracted a laminated visitors pass.

"I called ahead," he explained, stopping by a door marked 'Archives'. It looked every bit as storage closet as it possibly could. She could almost smell the dust from where she stood. "Bones? Whatever we find, if anything, I hope it only helps towards closure." She looked at the floor, thankful that her hair hid her eyes. She suspected she might be a little like Booth, with expressive irises. "Ready?" He took her hand, and her stomach fluttered.

"Lets go, Booth… I've waited long enough."


	2. A Learning Curve

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Chapter Two

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**A/N: I'm a massive fan of Mulder and Scully. I think the dynamic they created on screen was definitely part of the inspiration for Brennan and Booth. Unfortunately for me, I got into X-Files fan-fiction long after fanfic began. I am making an effort to write what, in my mind, would be a nice way for Brennan and Booth to exchange their first moment. I really hope you like it. Reviews are so, so welcome. I love them. Please do!**

**In case you didn't grasp it first time, please review my story. Hehe. Thanks!**

**N.B.: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of sex. If you're offended by this type of thing, I recommend you don't read. But hey, most people secretly love it! ;) **

The archives was a big room, filled with eleven rows of shelves and the back held a row of desks and a photocopying machine. Booth flicked all the lights on, casting a dull yellow glow. He sighed, moving through the shelves, he dropped their lunch on one of the desks.

The musty room was drenched in light, probably for the first time in months. Brennan turned full circle, surveying the room in awe. She sighed. "This really is grim, huh?" Booth nodded, moving to the computer at the far right end of the room, flicking the switch and the machine whirred to life. The monitor flashed the FBI emblem.

"Lunch first, Bones? Or do you want to get started?" She glanced at the brown paper bag, and slouched into the end chair. "Lunch it is." Booth opened the bag, extracting a large tub of mixed salad and a sandwich bulging with beef and mustard. "This is the most manly thing that stupid deli had. The one two blocks away from your place? And it's so over priced, too." Temperance popped the lid, the tangy pungent smell of French dressing made her mouth water.

She knew it was a cliché of image obsessed women, but she genuinely loved the taste of fresh lettuce, mixed peppers, onion and fresh dressing. And as requested, Booth had asked them to be sparse with the olives.

He took a bite of his sandwich, mustard dripping unto the table. "Tacos, Bones," he said though a mouthful, "you ought to try it sometime." Brennan took the disposable plastic fork, plunging it into the bowl. He watched her through darkened eyes, amused. "You're… Bones? Are you actually enjoying that?" She nodded, licking her fork. "The mind boggles, and a very sexist man once said, 'It's impossible to understand a woman'. He was right, you know." Temperance flicked French dressing his way before looking at the blue monitor over his shoulder.

"What do you think we'll find here, Booth?" She asked, dropping her eyes to the plastic bowl before her. She felt, rather than saw, Booth shrug.

"Maybe the truth. Maybe nothing. You have to be prepared for both eventualities, Bones." She nodded, too afraid to admit that she was deeply scared. How gruesome would the truth of their deaths be? Would she be forever haunted by their torment?

Booth tipped the paper bag, extracted a can of soda and slid it across the table. When she caught it, she looked up. "Thanks," she said, meaning more his support than the drink. "Booth? You'll stay with me, right? Until the end?" He popped the can, downing a mouthful of lemon and limeade, pushing the remainder of his sandwich away.

"Baby, I don't start something I can't finish," he said, winking flirtatiously at her. She smiled.

"You're not a man that turns everything into a sexual reference are you, Booth?" He reclined back in his chair, hands behind his head. Where his t-shirt crept, she caught a glimpse of bronzed skin, toned and dusted with a fine sprinkle of dark hair. She felt an involuntary flush at her cheeks.

"You're no fun, Bones," Booth said, stretching. She tried to resist a second glance, but the temptation ate at her resolve, and she flicked her eyes over the taut line of his torso. Angela was right. He was damn attractive, and she hated herself for noticing it.

"What happened with Tessa?" She found herself asking, snapping the ring pull on her own soda. Booth sobered, raking his fingers through his hair.

"That just didn't work out, Bones." Temperance thought the sugary taste of soda was vile. But she drank it anyway.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She asked, flicking the metal tab with her thumb. Booth straightened in his chair, scrunching the wrap from his sandwich into a ball. She noticed how his knuckles turned white when he did.

"Tempting, Bones. So tempting. But no." There was a tone of finality in his voice as he stood, moving towards the computer. Lunch was over, and effectively their conversation, too. Temperance considered pursuing it. But there was hardly any point. Booth was the most reserved man she knew. Or ever had known.

Typing his name and password into the box when prompted, Booth gestured to the seat next to him, indicating that Brennan should sit next to him.

**The articles herein are confidential. Admittance to these archives are for employees of the Federal Bureau of Investigation only.**

Booth rolled his eyes, clicking 'OK' and shaking his head. "Most people couldn't give a damn what's stored on this computer. Not even the FBI agents." He glanced at her. "I suppose the squints would give a limb to access these files." Temperance shrugged.

"I would doubt it. Everything here is on the Internet these days anyway." Booth lifted his eyebrow, frowning. "Seriously. The World Wide Web, Booth, check it out sometime." He nodded mutely.

"If I wasn't preoccupied with having a life, Bones, I would." She smiled, watching his face for a few seconds longer. He blinked at the screen, his lips turned into an odd smile. Almost a smirk. A self-assured smirk. She realised he was aware of her silent appraisal.

"What's it like, Booth?" She asked, crossing her legs, pulling her chair closer to the desk. Her thigh brushed his.

"What's what like, Bones?" He asked, bringing up a search bar on his screen. His eyes focused intently on the flashing bar that indicated that he should type. Something. Anything.

"Life. Is it all it's cracked up to be?" He typed in her parents names, clicked enter and turned to look at her.

"Yes Bones, of course it is." The search turned up five results, all of which were newspaper articles. He clicked on the first one, and read it silently. It was an article that had been published four weeks after the disappearance. It displayed facts that Brennan had read in her mind over and over again for twenty years. She nudged his knee, and he turned away from the screen, heaving a sigh. "What now, Bones?" He asked.

She was quiet, unsure of what she wanted to say. Nervousness made her nudge his knee again, and again until he looked like he might throttle her. Dropping his hand to her leg, he held it tight, her reflexive jerking stopping. "Are you alright?" She shook her head. Slowly. "What's the matter?"

The light above their head flickered, and together they glanced up. A row away, another flickered too.

"All these years I've been denying myself life because I felt guilty that my mom and dad had lost theirs. I felt that their life was cut short, and why should I be allowed to have fun? In college, my resolve slipped. Alcohol does that. But now… my work has made all that resurface and now I have essentially nothing but an enormous empty gap in my life. I'm a loser, Booth." He laughed, releasing her leg.

"You're a fool, Bones, nothing more." Her brow marred in confusion, and he sighed. "Only you can change it, Brennan. No one else can live your life for you." She looked at the carpet.

"You didn't have to give up your bowling for me, you know," she said quietly. He swivelled in his chair, flicking the monitor off. He suspected that Bones didn't want to search, anymore. Maybe she wanted to get on with her life, and this was the kick in the ass she had needed for so long.

"I don't mind," he answered, as the lights flickered again, and finally extinguished plunging the archives into darkness. Brennan felt her heart flutter, wondering what had happened. Was someone in the room? Wouldn't they have heard the door? "Bones?" Booth reached for her, his fingers tightening around her hand. "Stay here," he whispered, and she heard the distinctive sound of his gun as he slipped it from its holster. "Get down, under the table, okay?" She nodded, although he couldn't see her.

Ordinarily she would have followed, but since her run in with the corrupt FBI agent who had tried to feed her to ravenous dogs, she had felt less like a fighter than before. She was happy for his protection, and crouched under the desk as he moved beyond the shelving.

It was too dark to see even her own hands as she drew her knees to her chest. The room was silent now, as she wondered where Booth had gone. Was someone else there? Waiting on them? She clenched her fists so hard that her nails almost broke the skin.

"Bones?" He was close now, not far in front of her. She reached out, searching. Her fingers touched his shoulders and she crawled out from under the desk, her fingers trembling. "It's alright. I think it's just a fuse." Despite the false alarm, he still whispered. "You're shaking… Bones… what happened?" How was she to admit that her experience had frightened her? Booth would think she was incapable of doing the job. He would cast her aside as a weakling and find someone new, more independent, to do the work.

He took her shoulders, moving towards her, sitting on the rough carpet tiles. "Christ Brennan, are you alright?" She nodded into the darkness again, her heart pounding against her ribcage. She wasn't concerned about the dark, now. It was the realization that she wasn't okay. That being chained up, five seconds from death had left her more frightened that she'd allowed herself to admit.

She was a coward. "Bones?" His voice, soft and concerned, prompted her to reach for him. She yearned for the same comfort he'd provided that day. His arms, crushing her against his body, as though he'd been afraid to lose her. She felt herself fall forward, her nose pressed against his neck, her breathing laboured. He was scared, now, and her throat was too dry to reassure him.

He held her, stroking her hair, confused. He didn't know what to say, because he didn't know what was wrong. She was trembling, her entire body quaking against his. She was aware of how ridiculous the situation was. How had a blown fuse turned her into such a quivering wreck? Did she honestly believe that someone was coming to get them?

Damn her stupidity.

She had embarrassed herself now.

Moving back, she drew her legs to her chest, pressing her forehead to her knees. Tears stung her eyes, as she thought about her parents now. Their wasted life and now hers.

When he moved, shifting closer. She felt his fingers move through her hair. She lifted her head, trembling when his fingertips brushed her scalp. Her eyes searched the darkness for his outline, but she found none. She felt only his breath, hot against her skin as he held her against him, comforting. She yielded to her temptation, melding against his body. She felt his skin, scorching beneath his clothing.

The quake of her body was different now. She shook on the inside. Booth pulled her hair away from her neck, his breath searing against her clavicle. She tilted her head, subconsciously permitting him to move closer. His thumb stroked her temple, his nose nuzzling the nook of her neck. She revelled in the comfort his proximity offered.

His lips were softer than she expected, when they moved across her skin, barely touching. She shifted, instantly aware of how her body reacted. Beneath her shirt, her breasts felt heavy, her nipples hardened to points. She felt her eyes moisten, as he leaned over her, applying pressure to her skin, turning the breathless passing of his lips into a kiss. As he moved, his tongue tasted her jaw. She breathed him in; the spicy scent of his masculinity and something so unique to him.

Digging her fingers into the carpet, she was afraid to move, afraid to touch him in case the spell was broken. He was hovering over her, resting on his knees, his hands pressed to the floor, his body radiating a warmth she hadn't felt before. His tongue made her squirm. She ached to touch him, to feel his skin and confirm her belief that he would feel _so_ damn good.

He pressed his lips to the corner of her eye, where a tear had escaped. She felt his tongue touch the skin, there, and she sighed, tilting her head. He moved closer, lifting his right hand from the floor, brushing her hair aside, caressing her neck. She wanted to encourage him, but her voice was lost.

Just like her mind.

Despite the darkness, she closed her eyes, sucking a shaky breath into her lungs. She felt his lips against her neck again. He was smiling, his tongue dipping into her clavicle, along her throat. He tasted her pulse, lingering there for a long moment. When his mouth touched upon her chin, she almost sobbed. He was torturing her. She exhaled, parting her lips in expectation of his kiss.

Their breath mingled for a moment, sweet, warm and urgent. When he kissed her, she felt the air whoosh from her lungs and her body seemed to melt. He tasted exquisite, his mouth so hot and moist as he brushed his tongue along her bottom lip, urging her mouth open. She fell into him, complying, shifting against legs until their bodies were joined and her fingers were desperately searching his skin.

Booth moved against her, his hands hauling her shirt from inside her pants. She clung to his hair, her fingers bunched around the dark silken strands. His tongue brushed hers, prompting her to hips to move, as if by instinct. His hand pressed there, his fingers slipping beneath her shirt, along her side. She trembled again, his mouth soft and demanding, hurried and sensuous, all at once.

Her sensed were confused, her mind unable to understand the conflict.

His lips never left hers as he eased her back against the ground. She thought she should murmur words of encouragement, explain that she was so desperately enjoying all the things she was feeling. But each time she tried, his tongue touched hers, and comprehensible thought disappeared.

She sighed against his mouth, as his thumb brushed her nipple, encouraging the already hardened nub to an agonising point. He slipped his fingers beneath her bra, the callous pad of his thumb made her body ache. And hum. And tingle. All simultaneously.

He pulled her shirt away, exposing her body to him. She was grateful for the darkness, now. He could touch her anywhere, and never know that she was blushing.

His hands touched her breasts, his knee urging her legs apart. When he reclined back, breaking their kiss, she whimpered at the loss. He'd already made this the best experience in sex she'd ever had, and they were still wearing clothes. God, he was good. Better than she'd imagined. And she had imagined it. So many secret times.

His fingers deftly popped the button on her jeans. She touched him through the foggy darkness, pulling on his t-shirt, slipping under to touch the hardened muscle there. She felt his torso ripple beneath her fingertips and smiled. She had aroused Seeley Booth. He wanted her. Angela was right. There was truth in all the speculation.

Sitting, she pulled the t-shirt over his head, running her fingers over his warm skin, stroking the hard line of his vertebrae, along his shoulder blades, where the tendons in his back quivered, aroused by her touch. She felt his fingers as they franticly worked the clasp of her bra, his breath burning against her forehead. When the clasp gave way, he urgently shoved the garment away, his hands cupping her naked breasts, testing their weight, stroking her nipples until she thought she might not be able to survive the torment any longer.

There was necessity in the way he touched her. Yet Booth was the most gentle man she had allowed beyond the walls of professionalism. He held her close, their naked skin touching, hot and moist. She wrapped her arms around his neck, his lips pressed against her throat again. She felt him move, his mouth touching the swell of her breast, his tongue moving tasting each inch of her exposed skin.

His lips closed around her nipple and she thought his mouth was a furnace inside. She felt his tongue, so dexterous, flick the hardened nub, and for the first time, she called out. An illegible moan escaped her parted lips as she lurched against him. When the air touched the moistened nipple, it seemed to stiffen almost painfully.

With her pants undone, he slipped the zipper down, the sound almost raucous within the silent room. She wriggled, desperate to touch as much of him as she could. All of him.

Booth moved, sitting on his knees, he undid the button on his own pants, discarding them along with the garments they'd already removed. Brennan wondered, in the farthest part of her mind, how they'd come to be in the position they were in at all. It didn't matter. It was the best feeling she'd ever experienced – and it felt trite to try and analyse it.

She knelt before him now, their knees touching. She pressed her lips to his hardened physique, his tongue pressing the line of his torso. He jolted, his fingers tightening in her hair. She held his sides, her mouth dancing over his ribs. She felt his harsh intake of breath, and needed to feel him against her. He wanted her. As much as she wanted him.

His thumbs slipped into her panties, removing the silk and lace, her guilty pleasure, effortlessly. She was entirely naked, in the FBI Archives. It felt dangerous, mysterious and so darkly sexy. She had never been so aroused. He parted her thighs, slipping his finger between her legs, inside her folds. At her ear, she heard him groan, his lips moving against her skin.

"Temperance," he sighed, her name like a melody on his lips. He never called her Temperance. He hardly called her Brennan. It was so personal. Almost erotic. She whimpered, his fingertip stroking her clitoris. She touched him now, pulling on his underwear until he released her. The loss of his touch made her impatient. She squeezed her thighs together, desperate for release. Desperate to have him touch her, again.

When he returned, she felt the length of his erection against her and the urgency between them upped a pace. He sat on his knees and she ran her palms along the his hardened thighs. When her resistance broke, she touched his penis, wrapping her fingers around him, stroking, fascinated. He felt so good. So masculine. God, he was perfect. Booth was perfection. And he was hard because of her.

Temperance circled the tip, satisfied at the droplet of moisture she felt there.

Booth held her forearms, his fingertips pressed tight. His breathing was laboured as he pulled her close, hooking his hands behind her thighs and shifting her body until his penis was pressed between her legs. She ran her tongue along her lips, nestling her face against his neck. Rotating her hips, she felt her womb contract, her body ached to feel the length of him inside her.

Slipping her hand between them, she led him to her entrance, breathing hard, welcoming the intrusion. He stretched the moist velvet walls of her body, moaning her name as her muscles contracted tightly around him, accommodating the glorious length of him. She settled on his thighs.

"Votre chair en ma chair," Temperance whispered, taking his hand in hers. He pressed her mouth to hers, their tongues meeting in an erotic dance that only added to the sensation between their legs.

"Yes," he whispered, guiding his hand between the stomachs, pressing his fingertip to her clitoris. Temperance murmured, moving, until his penis was barely inside. When he circled her clitoris again, she sat, burying him inside her. He breathed out. "My flesh in your flesh," he translated. He moved within her, causing her womb to contract and her body to fill with heat.

He thrust, circling her clitoris, murmuring her name. She felt her orgasm build, as their bodies moved, slick and hot. He felt so good inside her that she couldn't imagine how she'd survived all these years with what she now knew was mediocre sex. Booth was the best. He touched her, made her feel alive.

Made her live.

He kissed her, circling her clitoris, applying pressure until her body shuddered and quivered around him. He groaned, tossing his head back and trusting against her until she felt him stiffen and his penis convulsed spilling white hot semen within her body. With their breathing laboured, they slouched against each other, sated.

Booth kissed her again, as if to reassure her. She burrowed her nose in his neck, inhaling the scent of their love-making. It smelt heady, naughty. She loved it.

"So," he whispered against her ear, "now do you understand?" Brennan frowned against his shoulder, and he seemed to sense her confusion. "Life, Bones. You asked if it was all it was cracked up to be. _That_ was life." Stroking her thigh, he felt her eyes moisten against his skin. "If you want, I can show you other ways to enjoy it."

She didn't need to speak.

He already knew her answer.


	3. First Lesson of Life

This Is Life

_Lessons in Living – One_

'_Accept that, all work and no play makes Temperance a very dull girl …'_

I'd rate this a T. If anyone reckons it's an M, let me know. But it's not explicit – the implication is there, though.

"You're taking me… bowling… Booth?" He cast her a sideways glance, grinning demonically. "Because… you see… when we were talking about life, I thought you meant we could do… what we did in the archives…again." She gnawed on her lower lip, the image of it was driving him mad.

"We can, Bones," he said. "But I had a different recreational activity in mind." He took a right turn, bringing the SUV to a stop outside a long single story building – with changing neon lights that depicted ten pins being floored by a red ball.

Brennan watched the pins fall and replenish four times before turning to Booth. "Seriously? The other thing… it was better. Definitely better." Booth killed the engine, removing the key.

"Bones… are you afraid?" She snapped her head, fixing him with cool blue eyes that reprimanded and seduced all at once.

"There is something violent about bowling, you know," she said. "The force exerted to careen an enormous, not to mention heavy, ball down a…" her brow furrowed.

"It's called a laneway, Bones, and there's nothing violent about it. It's fun. Fun. Add it to your vocabulary." He pushed the car door open, stepping out into the warm sun. Seconds later, Brennan followed.

She'd pulled her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck and her skin appeared luminous in the light. Despite her irritation, a small smile had played perpetually at her lips since they'd left the FBI headquarters. "I know the meaning of fun, Booth," she said, thrusting her hands into her pockets. "I have fun when I'm writing." Booth turned, locking the SUV. A long _beep_ hung in the air.

"Writing?" He asked, eyebrows rising skyward in disbelief. "Bones…" he shook his head. "You know you're a nerd, right?" Brennan followed him to the entrance, pouting.

"A nerd? Because I like to write? I've made money from writing." Booth nodded, pulling the door open and prompting her to enter. She hesitated, glancing into the darkened building. When it became obvious that she was stalling, Brennan relented, stepping inside.

"Exactly, Bones. Writing is like a job. You need a hobby." As if to punctuate his statement, the sound of thundering balls colliding solidly with wooden pins surrounded them. Music played over the intercom, similar to Booth's CD in his stereo. This was his place. She felt uncomfortable.

His hand fell on her back, firm and insistent, urging her forward. She turned to the laneways, and noticed that only half the people there were men. "C'mon Bones, you'll like it." Brennan didn't believe him for a minute. She could recall playing bowling once in her life. When she was twelve. Her arms had ached after _and_ she'd lost.

Temperance didn't like losing, much.

"I'll be back in a minute," Booth said and the insistent weight on her back disappeared. She shifted against the soda machine, watching as one of the guys in lane four pulled his arm back and released the black ball along the polished wood. It reminded Brennan of a cannon ball. It hit the pins in the middle, propelling all ten backwards, the guy leapt into the air in glee.

"That was a fluke, Benzo! A fluke!" One of his friend called, heaving a ball into his arms. Brennan didn't think it was a fluke at all. Benzo had strong arms and a good aim.

"Hey Bones, take your shoes off." Brennan spun, glancing down at the boots she wore and then at the navy and red shoes Booth was holding out to her. She shook her head. "You can't bowl in _those_," he sighed, exasperated. "The lanes are waxed, and unless you want to end up on your ass with your head as the ball, you should cast your vanity aside." Brennan snatched the shoes from his hands.

"I am _not_ vain, Booth," she snapped, kneeling to unzip her boots. "Did you get the balls?" She saw the retort form on his lips, the telltale smirk and sighed. "Booth, for once… don't…" He laughed.

"What? Is friendly banter out of the question, now?" Brennan slipped her feet into the bowling shoes, straightening and thrusting her foot out, turning her ankle in a circle and examining the dual-colour shoes. They were disgusting.

"It was never acceptable, Booth," she said, finally. "Shall we?" Brennan took her boots, slipping them under a chair and cast her eyes to lane six. With hands on her hips, she turned to Booth. "Our lane doesn't have the things…" she gestured to the darkened lane beside theirs.

"What?" Booth asked, taking a dark red ball in his hand, flexing his arm.

"Those things, Booth," Brennan pointed to the gutters at the side of the lanes. "I'll lose my balls." Booth chuckled, his eyes twinkling, full of mischief and innuendo.

"They're called bumpers, Bones, and as for your balls, I think you've already lost them. Either that or you were born a wuss." She resented the statement, and resisted the urge to shove his bowling ball down his throat. Or up his ass. Whichever would have proved most painful.

Turning to the screen above their head, she saw the two blank score cards and frowned. "Bones? You programmed me in as _Bones_? Booth…" He just laughed, spinning the ball in his upturned palm.

"Me first!" Stepping up to the line, Booth examined the length of the lane, the angle at which he stood and when he threw the ball, it hit the wood with the crashing thud and propelled in a perfect line, hitting the pins head on. Like Benzo in lane four, his throw diminished all the pins instantaneously. He performed a little victory dance that made Brennan wonder if all men harboured the same egotistical desire to prove themselves.

Booth was as masculine as any male she'd ever known. Physically and emotionally.

He stopped when he saw that she was frowning and looked momentarily contrite. "C'mon Bones, it's your turn." Taking a smaller navy ball in his hand, he slid it into hers. Brennan watched as the pins were replaced and she instinctively knew she'd never get them all down. Damn, she hated 'having fun'.

Before she released the ball, she knew her aim was all wrong. The heavy sphere rolled haphazardly down the lane, veering off to the left and thumping down into the gutter, rolling past the ten pins which seemed to laugh at her from where they stood, undisturbed, not even rocking.

She sighed.

Hate was too mild a word. She loathed having fun.

The score board displayed a mocking '0' next to her name while Booth had a joyous 'X'. Strike. Damn him!

She dropped unto the bench, dully aware that the machine didn't even need to replace the pins.

"It's still your turn, Bones," Booth said. "You get a second go." Her cheeks flamed, and she wasn't sure she could handle the humiliation. A quick glance a Booth told her he wasn't making fun of her. "I'll help you," he said, proffering the ball to her again. She sighed, taking the weight into her arms, awkwardly arranging it until her fingers and thumb slipped into the holes. "It's easy, I'll show you." She rose, stepping reluctantly up to the line. Behind her, Booth stood close.

She glanced over her shoulder and he shifted forward, his body flush with hers. Brennan sucked an unsteady breath into her lungs, her eyes wide, staring fixatedly ahead at the white pins. Booth bent his head, easing her hair aside with his chin. His lips grazed her ear.

"Relax, Bones," he whispered, brushing his hands down her arms. She felt her muscles loosen at his command, but her pulse raced erratically against her throat. His fingers caressed hers, until she thought she might drop the bowling ball on her toes. "You can't throw if you're wound like a spring." His cheek brushed her jaw and prickly hair sent a tremble through her body.

Slipping his arm around her waist, he passed his lips across the shell of her ear. Brennan leant into his embrace, wondering if now was a good time to bail out of bowling and engage in the recreational activity _she_ enjoyed. The basic reasoning skills she once chided Booth about, disappeared when his fingers slipped beneath her shirt and ran across her torso.

"Aim, Bones," he whispered, taking her wrist in his hand again. "Pull your arm back." She obeyed. "And… throw." When the ball fell from her hands, it flew effortlessly down the lane, in a vertical line, and when it hit, it was just a few centimetres off the middle. She watched as, like dominos, the pins tumbled, one after the other, clattering, crashing and disappearing.

She smiled.

"That's called a Spare, Bones. It means you're not really so bad." His mouth passed across her ear again, his breath hot and sweet and arousing. Brennan pressed her thighs together, acutely aware of his own arousal, pressed against her lower back.

"I'm not?" She asked, vaguely conscious that it was now Booth's turn, and they were standing at the line, watching the pins like idiots. "Well… that's something, I suppose." Booth nodded against her shoulder. "Hmm… if my next throw is bad, will you help me again?" His chuckle was gruff, desperately arousing and completely Booth. He closed his lips around her lobe for the shortest second, and she felt faint.

"Nope, Bones, you're on your own now. My turn!" He turned, leaving her alone, her legs weak and her throat dry, torn between the desire to throttle him and the desire to maul him.

"Booth?" She followed him back to the bench, running her tongue across her lips. "About the archives-"

"Are you insatiable, Bones?" He slipped his fingers into the heavier bowling ball he used.

"Will there definitely be a repeat?" His eyes twinkled again as he swept his gaze over her body. He was distracted from their game, momentarily.

"I personally guarantee it, Bones. For now, just play."

**Should this be continued? I was thinking of turning Brennan's quest for life into a little game between them? Let me know! Thanks!**


	4. Into The Abyss

This Is Life

Lesson #2

This chapter is rated 'M' – because there will be sex herein.

_A/N: I like the idea of Brennan and Booth playing a little game before having to define what's going on between them. Italics in this story indicate thought._

**.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.**

**The Jeffersonian Institute**

Brennan ran her fingertips over the glossy photograph, her eyes ravaging the detail of the skull and she imagined that, if the bone had skin, the girl would be stunning in her beauty. It was sad that her death had been so tragic. And so long ago.

She looked down at her notes and flicked on a tape recorder. "Analysis of the remains indicate that they're over five hundred years old. Bones are that of a female, between eighteen and twenty five years," she sighed, resting her chin in her hand.

The recorder stopped, signifying the end of the tape.

Opening her drawer in search of a new one, Temperance caught sight of the time, and found herself sighing again. How could it already be nine thirty? Did she really spend so much time in the lab?

Goodman had been insistent on identification on the remains. He'd been roaming the lab like a giddy child – something so out of character for her boss. He picked through salvaged artefacts, commenting occasionally on the story that might lie behind them.

Changing the tapes around, Brennan hoped Angela would have a reconstruction of the face by morning.

Her door flew open with enough force to draw the blinds away from the glass. "Bones, really, do you know what time it is?" She dropped her hands to her desk, fanning her fingers over her notes and photographs. "What did we say about fun?" She threw a cautious glance at the still open door, thankful that the room beyond was empty.

"I have work to do, Booth," she said.

"Angela said you'd be working tomorrow, too. Which is convenient, because I have a _mountain_ of paper work to finish. And since our workload doesn't permit us to have our day off, I was thinking we could do something tonight." He grinned cheekily, gesturing towards the door. "What do you say, Bones? How about it?"

Brennan cast another glance at the notes and realised a week had past since she'd spent personal time with Booth. They'd seen each other only once all week, and as he stood before he now, she realised how much she'd missed him. It wasn't this realisation that startled her. It was realising that she missed more than just his touch.

"Okay…" she said finally, neatly organizing her desk, closing the cover on the case. She knew she shouldn't feel guilty. She already put over 60 hours a week into her job, and she deserved a little down time. A little time to enjoy life, as Booth would say.

"Excellent. What do you want to do, Bones? Catch a movie?"

She shook her head, gesturing to the clock. "It's already too late for that, Booth. We could order some food, maybe?" Booth rattled his keys, nudging his head towards the door. Brennan smiled, pushing her chair back. "You're eager to get out of here. Still uncomfortable with us squints?" Booth shook his head slowly.

"I like everyone here, Bones, you know that. I'm just keen to spend a little," he held his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart, "time away from work. Like I said, I have a mountain of work to do tomorrow." Turning off the lights, Brennan felt a little wrong admitting how glad she was to be leaving her office. She remembered a time when nothing would have dragged her away from her job.

The air outside was balmy and scented with summer. Above her head, the stars twinkled majestically and Brennan stopped to examine them for a moment. She had spent such a long time absorbed in her profession that she forgot about the other things in life.

Booth encased her fingers in his, the warmth of his skin reminded her of humanity and companionship. "It's not a good idea, Booth," she warned, looking around the parking lot. There were still cars, still people working, and that meant they could be seen. She wasn't ready to explain the inner workings of their relationship. Especially when she didn't fully know herself.

"Bones, no one cares," he said, moving on until they stood next to his SUV.

"Angela does," Brennan argued, shifting against the side of his car, reluctant to release her hand from his. He brought his palms down, either side of her head, imprisoning her against the vehicle. She was embarrassed to admit that she liked it. He looked like a predator and he was the first man to challenge her physical strength that she didn't offer a swift kick in the balls to.

"Angela left as I arrived. She's gone, Bones." He lifted his right hand, stroking an errant strand of hair from her forehead. He leaned close, watching her closely, his eyes luminous, filled with curiosity and wonder. The small smile that toyed with his lips fell away and his eyes widened. Brennan frowned, concerned. He looked as though all the joy had been sucked out of his life. He looked miserable and she wondered what she'd done. "Let's go, Bones," he said, unlocking the car, and almost racing to his side.

When he got in, he turned the music up so loud, that it became apparent that he did not want to talk.

_Fuck…_

He repeated the explicative several times over, clenching the steering wheel with both fists.

Next to him, Brennan had turned away, facing the window, her expression sombre. She continually ran her palms nervously over her thighs, and he felt guilty. He'd been so elated when she agreed to leave early. She'd been on his mind all week and he'd been wishing his life away, just to reach Sunday.

How had he fucked up so royally?

_Did being a sniper not teach you anything, Booth?_ He berated himself for his stupidity. _Cool detachment. Emotional impassiveness. _A sweat broke out across his brow, and he swiped it violently away. Damn his inability to control himself!

How had everything escalated so drastically in one week? Why did he look into her eyes and see a reflection of his own feelings? And more importantly, why had a week changed his life to the point where he could imagine nothing, if it didn't have Bones?

He recklessly ignored a red light, leaving a chorus of horns in his wake.

When had he fucking started to love her?

_It was meant to be sex, Booth! Sex. You do remember what that is, don't you? No strings attached sex. Not commitment. Not… _

He didn't want to think it. He had never admitted love to anyone. Not Tessa and if he was honest, not even Parker's mother. He was old fashioned at heart. Pregnancy should have meant marriage. But he didn't feel emotionally bound to her.

Oh how stupid could he have been?

"Booth?" Her voice was timid.

"What?" He snapped, flashing her a glare that conveyed the fury he felt inside. She recoiled.

"Nothing. It doesn't matter." He sighed, forcing himself to relax.

"I'm sorry, Bones," he said, easing his foot off the accelerator. "Really." She nodded mutely, but the hurt was evident on her features. When he brought the vehicle to a stop, pulling in at the side of the road, she turned her head again, frowning.

"What are you doing?" Booth turned the stereo off and the silence was deafening. He closed his eyes, throwing his head back against the seat. Next to him, Brennan shifted, uncomfortable and concerned. "Booth? Are you alright?" Her insides quaked when he opened his eyes and fixed his impossibly dark gaze on her. She felt a mixture of trepidation and arousal and something so exciting she wondered how she'd spent so many years missing such a vital part of her existence. Booth has an intensity that scared the life out of her.

He cupped the back of her head, pulling her towards him, his touch so fierce and desperate that she the air flew from her lungs as she gasped. The sound was silenced by his mouth, hot and insistent against hers. The seatbelt dug into her side, but she ignored it, parting her lips, permitting his tongue to ravage hers.

Booth did not disappoint. She was reminded of the archives and how he'd kissed her in the dark, then. The streetlamps above their heads bathed them in a ghostly light, and she opened her eyes just long enough to see his long lashes against his cheeks as he pulled her closer, passing his tongue across hers.

She sighed, slipping her fingers into his hair, and with her other hand, confirming her suspicions that he was desperately aroused. He was hard beneath her palm, and heat radiated through the material. Brennan murmured against his lips, recalling much too vividly how good he'd felt when he was inside her.

Booth groaned into her mouth, his fingers pressing tenaciously at her breast, as though he simply couldn't touch enough of her.

A car sped past and they flew apart, flushed and gasping. Brennan pressed her fevered skin against the cool glass, breathing as though she'd been working out. Her cheeks felt hot and the skin beneath her clothes seared.

"Bones…" Booth fell forward, slamming his head repetitively against the steering wheel. "Christ, Bones, how do you…"

"Booth…" she sighed, closing her eyes, images of their kiss flashing rapidly against her eyelids. "We should go," she said, pulling her hair from her face. Booth nodded, straightening. The journey continued, the confines of the car filled with arousal, desperation and something neither of them wished to define.

He liked her apartment. There was a homely feminism about it that reminded him that Brennan wasn't all about work. She had a home and an outside life. As each day went by, however, he was intergrading him deeper and deeper into it.

She flicked the switch on a lamp, bathing the room in soft light. He remembered being here before, and how wacky she'd been, dancing idiotically with him to the music she didn't even own. Before he'd been almost blown apart.

He swallowed, stepping into her living room and removing his shoes without waiting for permission. It seemed hackneyed, pretending that there was some degree of formality between them. There wasn't. If they'd spent much longer, making out like horny school kids, he would have screwed her on the way home.

"Would you like a drink, Booth?" She asked, removing her own shoes.

"No thanks," Booth replied, detailing her apartment in his head.

"Do you want me to order some food, now?" He took her hand, stilling her movements. He moved close, pressing a breathless kiss to her throat.

"No, Bones. I don't want anything," he said, adoring how she seemed to fall into his embrace, her body melting. "Except maybe you." He had thought of barely anything but that moment all week. His paperwork was a shambles, his investigative technique shot to pieces. Bones played inside his mind, dangerously loud and insistent.

He brushed his hand over her spine, smiling when he thrust her hip against him, her lips parting. "Bones?" She hummed against him in response, her arms under his, her fingers stroking his shoulder blades. "Later, we need to discuss some things, okay?" She nodded mutely and he wondered if she heard him at all.

For now, though, he was contented with having her in his arms. "Take your clothes off, Bones. A week is long enough for me." She nuzzled his chest with her nose.

"Me too," she agreed, stepping back and taking his hand in hers.

The few steps they took to her bedroom seemed to last forever. He followed her, their eyes dancing over each other. Once inside, it was as though they'd been given permission to touch, to caress. Brennan pulled his tie from his throat, deftly flicking the buttons on his shirt, slipping her palms inside, touching him, relishing that she could do so.

His muscles seemed to quiver as she touched him through his pants. She was rewarded with a guttural moan and Booth tore at her shirt, brutal and demanding and not in the slightest bit gentle. She heard the predictable sound of a button as it flew across the room and hit the picture.

Naked, they fell against the pillows, a downy feather fluttering into the air, and down again. Booth smiled, taking the opportunity to study her in the light. She looked exquisite. Better than his wildest fantasies. He wished he could have seen her the first time they had sex.

_Correction_, he thought. _Made love._

The realisation still made his chest ache with anxiousness.

He concentrated on the feather, taking it between his fingers and brushing it across her skin. Brennan trembled, her pupils dilated, crazed with need. He smiled. He passed the feather across her breast, satisfied at how her nipples hardened.

She sucked a breath as he stroked her breast bone, and circled her naval. Her knees shook and her fingers were unsteady as she reached out to stroke his hair. Booth leaned into her touch, continuing downward, circling her hipbone. She bent her knees and arched upwards, flexible and beautiful, craving more than the feather that whispered across her body, leaving her skin tingling everywhere it touched.

"Booth…" she sighed, tugging on his hair, bringing his lips down to meet hers. She couldn't taste him enough. She couldn't imagine being kissed by anyone else, ever again, and in the back of her mind, she knew this was a worrying concept. Booth was attracted to her physically, but emotionally, they had a lot of connecting to do.

Booth continued his ministrations, stroking her thigh, the motion urging them apart. Brennan craved to feel what he'd done to her last week. The memory of her most intense orgasm was almost enough to make her come again.

She touched his arms, hard and defined from much training and FBI physicals. Booth tossed the feather aside, moving until he hovered over her, drinking in the sight of wide blue eyes, rose-tinged cheeks and plump red lips. He adored her. He knew he could never just 'fuck' Brennan. She had crept into his soul.

His finger twisted in her reddish-brown hair, curling and uncurling as he watched her, watched her desperation mount before his eyes.

"You're an amazing woman, Bones," he said and she grinned.

When he permitted himself to slip inside her, Brennan exhaled sharply and he thought he might have hurt her. Except she didn't looked pained. Her eyes were closed, her mouth parted and she murmured his name like a mantra. He revelled in her wetness, in how she felt around him.

She was amazing. Truly.

She met his thrusts with mutual vigour, their hips meeting and parting in a frenzied dance that was punctuated by sighs and the whisperings of endearments neither of them had ever spoken to anyone before.

He cupped her face, wondering if perhaps she looked as though she might cry. "You're beautiful, Temperance," he said, brushing his thumb across her lips. She murmured, wrapping her legs around his waist and inviting him deeper into her body. The sensation made his body tingle and he wondered if he were experiencing an epiphany

Suddenly things in life that he never understood before made perfect sense.

"Temperance," he breathed, thrusting twice more inside her. When he came, she quaked around him at just the same moment, calling his name, her nails digging into his shoulder. She thrashed in her own euphoria and then stilled, sated.

When his muscles regained enough strength to move, Booth slid to the other side of the bed, and pulled her into his arms, cradling her against his chest.

"So," she yawned, stroking his jaw with her fingertip. "What did you want to talk about?"

**Anyone think Brennan deserves to know?**


	5. Admitting Defeat

This Is Life

Rated T for implications. No sex in this chapter I'm afraid, but keep reading!

"Brennan, I finished the reconstruction on the vic," Angela said, stepping into her office and brandishing a sketch pad in her hand. "If my drawing is accurate, and I _totally_ believe it is, this girl was pretty." Brennan nodded, taking the pencil sketch into her hand.

She already expected that the girl would be. She had wide almond shaped eyes and although there was no colour, Brennan knew they were dark brown, high cheekbones, a heart shaped face, full lips and a little nose. Angela had drawn her with long flowing hair and a tiny smile. She liked to believe that the bodies they identified once harboured smiles on their faces.

"She _was_ pretty," Brennan agreed. "It's perfect, Angela."

Returning the drawing to her friend's hand, Brennan turned back to her notes. "Alright Tempe, what gives?" Angela asked, crossing her arms, her expression stern. Brennan frowned, pulling a magnifying glass across one of the photographs, narrowing her eyes at the woman's femur.

"I think the woman was stabbed, Angela. I doubt those injuries would have killed her but…" Angela shook her head.

"That's not what I mean," she said. "You've confined yourself to this office all afternoon, pouring over pictures and notes and God knows what else!" Brennan lifted her head, brushing her hair aside.

"Goodman wants some answers, Ange. I can't wander about the lab all day, you know that." Angela frowned, shaking her head.

"Nuh uh, something is going on. There's something you're not telling me!" Her tone accused, and she wasn't smiling. "You're keeping secrets, Brennan. What secrets?" Brennan sighed, smoothing her hand across her forehead, a dull throb beating insistently against her temples.

"Angela—"

"Lie to me, Brennan and I'll know about it." Her friend's tone was warning and her expression made Brennan think of a child being reprimanded. Suddenly she felt afraid to lie. Angela was intuitive, street savvy and would sooner or later come to the conclusion that no one else would:

"I slept with Booth," she said.

Angela was still for a long moment and Brennan felt the smallest amount of gratification in knowing that her friend didn't quite know how to respond. When her mouth formed an 'O', Temperance turned one corner of her mouth up and nodded.

"Yeah. Oh."

Angela dropped unto the sofa, setting her sketch book aside, resting her elbows on her knees. "Well, why so glum? Was it… you know… bad?" Brennan shook her head, frantic, her hair fanning around her cheeks that glowed pink.

"No! It was…," she sighed, pressing her forehead to her desk. "It was perfect, Ange." When she sat up, a photograph had stuck there, and she pulled it away, her shoulders slumped. "That's what bothers me. When he fell asleep last night-"

"Booth stayed over?" Angela asked, her jaw slack. "So this is more just a… fuck thing?" Brennan growled.

"Yes," she sighed. "I kept thinking about how I never wanted him to be gone. And then this morning, when he was, I realised it would be _another_ seven days until he was back and _last _week was torment," she inhaled deeply, shaking her head. Angela was shaking her head, too.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up there," she said, lifting her hand. "Last week? This has happened _before_? You and Booth are… regularly doing this then?" Brennan shook her head.

"No. Just twice." Her cheeks flamed. "The first time… it was a distress thing. Booth was comforting me. But this time-"

"Comforting you? Why?" Angela drank the information in, relishing the gossip.

"The lights went out in the FBI Archives. I was shook up, because of what had happened with the dogs… and the FBI agent and… Jesus Angela," she shook her head.

"You had _sex_, with _Booth_, in the FBI archives? God Brennan, you really are dirty little minx." Brennan groaned into her hands, her cheeks burning. "So how does the situation stand?"

Temperance thought of Booth, working on his case file, engrossed in his reports, and wished they'd said something more than they had last night. She wished they'd had a real conversation that involved more than perfunctory small talk. It was as though Booth was avoiding something.

"He said we needed to talk about some things. We never did, though. When I asked about it…," she sighed. "He just told me to sleep." Angela's shoulders slumped. "I'm going crazy, Ange. I can't stop thinking about him. I don't even _like_ Booth. He's irritating and arrogant and egotistical and cocky! He's everything I hate about men." Angela shook her head, almost disappointed.

"Oh sweetie, of course you like him," she said.

"He irritates me!" Brennan insisted, trying harder to convince herself rather than Angela.

"You adore him," Angela insisted.

Brennan pulled her drawer open, rummaging inside for aspirin. Her hand stilled, and her head seemed to pound harder, in tandem with her racing pulse. "Yeh…" she said. "I do." And it bothered her that she didn't know what Booth had wanted to say. It bothered her more that he never explained his change in mood – the Jekyll and Hyde transformation from handsome and happy to…

Horny and furious.

Angela took her sketch book and stood, her eyes sympathetic. "You see, Brennan, love them and leave them, sweetie. Sentimentality is just… blah!" Temperance shook two pills into her palm, shaking them as though they were dice.

"There is so much sentimentality, Angela. In the way he touches me…," she blushed. "He's not the same Booth that you all know." Angela grinned, pressing her back against the door.

"That's why he's perfect, sweetie. He can whip you into a frenzy in the office and satisfy you in bed. What more could you possibly want?" Brennan contemplated this, tossing the pills into her mouth and washing them away with half a glass of water. It was purely psychological, but she felt the pain ease inside her head.

"What if…," Brennan paused, glancing sideways at her friend. "What if I am too afraid to admit that it's exactly what I want?" Angela, ever the fountain of wisdom was silent for a long time, her dark eyes fleeting across the office, her brow furrowed in a deep frown.

"No one can force to admit anything, Brennan," she said at last. "But my advice? I suggest you do – because a guy like that… they don't come along that often and there are _plenty_ of women out there who would totally snatch him away." Then she grinned. "Women like me!" Brennan picked up her pen, signifying the end of their conversation. Angela pulled the door open and stepped into the lab. With her back turned, she spoke. "Bren? Think hard about what I said. Underneath the incorrigible attitude and macho display, I think he's a really good man."

When she was gone, Brennan dropped her pen, closed her eyes and resigned herself to the fact that, for the first time in years, she didn't give a damn about bones or identification.

She couldn't recall a time whenever her job had ever defeated her. Despite how difficult her tasks were, she solved the problems with a logical mind. Rational leaps of scientific faith. But with Booth, there was no logic. The way she felt couldn't be rationalised or categorised.

Emotionally, she failed.

She had to admit defeat.

The phone on her desk trilled and she jolted, snatching the receiver into her hand and barking her name down the phone.

"Bones? Are you alright?" His voice soothed and unnerved her. It was the most peculiar feeling.

"Not really," she admitted, pressing her fingertips to her pulse, feeling how it thudded against her skin. "Um, you said we needed to discuss some things. What things?" If she was going to admit any feelings, she needed to know what reservations he might be harbouring.

"That's why I called," Booth said. "Do you think, when you've finished, we could go out? Maybe for dinner?" Brennan felt her neck flush as she remembered how they'd foregone food the night before.

"That isn't like a code, is it, Booth?" She asked, raking her fingers through her hair.

"A code?" He queried.

"You aren't suggesting that we go back to my apartment and have sex, right?" He laughed gruffly, and she imagined he was shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

"No, Bones. I think we _really_ need to talk. Face to face. Man to woman. Heart to heart." Brennan looked at the images before her, and decided she much preferred dealing with the dead. They didn't frighten her like the living. Like life.

"I don't like heart to hearts, Booth," she admitted, swallowing hard.

"No," he replied. "Me neither. But sometimes, we need to take a leap and ignore our fears." She nodded, aware that he couldn't see her response. It didn't matter, he seemed to understand. "How's eight thirty?" Brennan checked her watch. It wouldn't take long. In a few short hours, she'd be expected to speak of emotions and feelings and there was no avoiding it.

"Eight thirty is fine," she said, disconnecting the call.

_Take a leap of faith_, she thought, _and admit defeat_.

Flicking on her tape recorder she brought it to her lips. "Victim was Asian, possibly from the Indian sub-continent. A mark left in her femur suggests penetration from a long, sharp instrument…"

End.

**A/N: I'm going to dedicate my next chapter to leaps of faith and emotional revelations. I hope you'll come back. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed my story so far! It's your kind words that encourage me to write, even when I'm over-worked and so tired! Thanks!**


	6. The Greatest Cliche

This Is Life

_The Greatest Cliché_

Booth choose French.

He said his local would not afford them the privacy he felt the occasion required. Brennan felt her chest seize, following as the waiter lead them unto the veranda, gesturing to a wrought iron table, bathed in candle light that fluttered majestically in summer breeze and carried with it, the scent of jasmine.

The waiter asked if they would like some wine, and Booth automatically asked for _Rose D'Anjou_, rolling the words from his tongue as though it were second nature. Brennan studied the menu, wondering what would transpire tonight and if their relationship, if she could call it that, would have tilted towards something else, by the time they had finished their meal.

"This is nice," Booth said, casting his gaze around the small veranda. There was one other couple, at the far side, eating in companionable silence.

Brennan watched as the small white fairy lights, strung loosely around the bay trees twinkled in the dark. She felt as though she were part of a couple and not, as they were defined at present, an anthropologist and an FBI agent.

"Yes," she agreed, "it's lovely."

The waiter returned, carrying a bottle of pinkish wine and an ice bucket. He removed the cork deftly, tipping the wine, pouring Brennan's first. When he stopped, he waited for her to taste.

She knew nothing of wines. At least not expertly. But the aroma filled her nostrils and she breathed in appreciatively, swirling the liquid and taking a small sip. She'd always believed wine was nothing to rave about and if she was honest, they all tasted the same and had the desired effect of intoxication. She had no desire to learn about barrels or grapes. But Booth's choice lingered delicately on her tongue and she found herself murmuring her approval.

"Is good, yes?" The waiter asked, nodding enthusiastically.

"It tastes of strawberries," Brennan said, turning her eyes to Booth.

"Oui!" The waiter agreed, replenishing her glass and turning to Booth. "You make a good choice, monsieur," he added, slipping the bottle into the wine bucket. "May I take your order?"

Booth ordered a platter of cheese and asked Brennan if she wanted to share, because apparently French cheese was divine. She agreed, vaguely aware that too much dairy was bad. They both ordered _canard a l'orange _because the waiter recommended it, and French salad drenched in vinaigrette.

"And bread," Booth added.

When they were alone, he breathed in, lifting his glass. "To us, Bones," he said, as she knocked her glass against his. "Should we talk now? Or would that spoil an otherwise lovely evening?" Temperance drew in the sweet jasmine again, now mixed with rosé wine.

"It is a lovely evening," she agreed. "Why would a serious conversation necessarily spoil it?" She queried, and Booth smiled. She thought he might toast again, but he remained silent for a long time, the balmy air settling around them, the scent of French cuisine wafting through the air. The mixture assaulted her senses, and Temperance thought she'd never want to leave the table.

"I'm glad you said that, Bones, because you're not the only person who has been nervous about tonight." Brennan couldn't imagine Booth had ever been nervous in his life. He carried an air of confidence and assurance that was unrivalled by anyone Temperance had never known.

"Nervousness is a natural reaction to that which-"

"Don't analyse, Bones, be human." Brennan dropped her eyes to the linen table cloth and nodded mutely. Her analytical mind was part of her defence mechanism. She needed to protect herself with intelligence and science. Emotion, humanity and normality frightened her because she wasn't good with it.

"What's happening to us, Booth?" She asked at last. "Is it sex? Is that what we have going on here?" Booth tipped his glass, gazing into the liquid as though it contained the answers of the universe.

"I'm not that type of guy," he said, glancing at her through his eyelashes. "I think you're an amazing woman, Bones. You're intelligence and dignified and you drive me crazy. You question my methods and excite me every single day. And I don't mean sexually. Not just, anyway." He lifted his head completely, fixing the entirety of his gaze on her now, watching the maelstrom of emotions that played across her lovely features. "I've never been effected by a woman the way you effect me. I love working with you, Bones. You're incredible."

"I… thank you, Booth," Brennan replied. "But I don't imagine we're here to talk about my ability to do my job or questions yours. That wouldn't require a leap of faith, would it?" Booth shook his head. "So what?"

"We're here to define what 'we' are, Bones. We cannot continue to fumble blindly, ending up in bed together and waking up wondering what we've done and if it's right." Brennan drained her glass.

"I have never doubted it, Booth. While that which feels right and not always necessarily so, intuition tells me I am not being foolish to believe it _is_." He nodded, throwing his head back, swallowing hard.

"What are we doing, Bones? Are we dancing around something out of fear of rejection? Have we fallen into the age old trap?" Brennan drew invisible patterns on the tablecloth with her fingertip, shaking her head.

"Who's analysing now, Booth?" she asked. He chuckled, watching as the waiter approached with a tray of mixed cheese. They were silent until he had refilled their glasses and disappeared again. When he had, Brennan spoke. "You're different to other men, Booth. You're not afraid of me." She tried the camembert, deciding that she quite liked the taste. "I like that." Booth frowned.

"The cheese?"

"No. Well, yes. But that's not what I meant." Booth nodded, acknowledging that he understood. "You treat me with a bizarre sense of respect that isn't founded on your desire to impress me. You see me as a person and not a scientific, robotic drone." Booth smiled weakly.

"Ordinarily, you're not the type of woman I would envision myself with, Bones," he said. She nodded, dropping her eyes. "And it's strange. I cannot understand _why_. Suddenly I can't envision myself with anyone _but_ you. I'm confused and I spend most of my day trying to decipher what it means." Brennan looked up, her eyes darkened to the colour of sapphires in the candle light.

"I got virtually nothing done in the lab today," she admitted. "You drive me crazy-"

"The feeling is mutual," Booth hurried to add.

"Yet I can't describe how I feel as anything less than…"

They spoke simultaneously.

"Love?"

"Love?"

Brennan smiled across the table, snatching the last cube of delicious cheese. "Isn't that a cliché, Booth?" She asked.

"Love, Bones, is officially the _worst_ offender in _The Great Book of Clichés_, but an overused statement is not inevitably wrong." Brennan nodded her head in agreement, folding her hands atop the table. "Besides," Booth added, "we don't use clichés very often and I figure we deserve this one, huh?" Brennan lifted her glass, as if in a second toast.

"I agree, Booth," she said. "Here's to love and tacky clichés."

**A/N: My husband is Mauritian. The cuisine there has a lot of French thrown in, plus he speaks the language fluently which helps. He helped me with the names of the dishes and D'Anjou is my favourite wine. It really tastes of strawberries! I hope you liked. Review, si vous plait.**


	7. Vertical Halt

Title: This is Life

Rating: T. Sexual torture for Booth.

Disclaimer: If I owed them, they'd be too hardcore for Fox.

I had a terrible day at work today and now I just want to have a bath go to bed. While I am sleeping I hope you enjoy.

_Vertical Halt_

"I'm a little drunk."

"I know. You've tripped twice." He held her arm, climbing the stairs to her apartment because he didn't think the elevator was a good idea. Alcohol, apparently, was not something Temperance Brennan could handle well.

"Really?" She stumbled, laughing raucously at her own stupidity. "Whoops," she said, pressing her forehead against the wall, closing her eyes. He thought for a moment she might fall asleep. "Booth?" One eye peeked open, glassy and bright.

Slipping his arm around her waist, he steered her towards her apartment, suddenly sober. If she fell, he was not taking her to the emergency room. It was entirely her fault, for neglecting to mention her low tolerance. What a way to end a night of romantic, life changing confessions.

"Hmm?" He fished in her pocket for her key, ignoring her brazen attempt to distract him with her cleavage. "Bones, be still." She wiggled her hips in response.

"You're hot." He swallowed a chuckle, maintaining the sternest glare he could.

"Stand still."

"No." She shimmied way, moving towards the elevator.

"Bones! Where are you going?" Her finger jabbed the button, once.

Twice.

Seven times.

"Stop it! You're going to break it."

The doors binged and slid apart, and the sight of the empty elevator with all the unlit buttons were apparently an exciting prospect in her drunken state. "Bones…" he warned, racing towards her as the doors began to close. He missed a broken shoulder by a quarter of an inch. "Jesus _fucking_ Christ! This is the last time, Bones. Last time!" He wasn't sure whether he meant his last attempt or the last time she was allowed wine. Or anything with stronger an lemonade.

"I feel sick."

"Oh shit." She belched a little. "This was exactly why we were avoiding the elevator, Bones." She ignored him, moving towards the panel of buttons, wondering if perhaps she could get out of the moving box before her stomach contents end up on the floor. Her neighbours wouldn't like it.

She tripped, slamming her palm against the panel.

Every button except one, lit up.

"For the love of _God! _Sit on the floor, Bones. Sit. Now." She opened her mouth to protest, but drunkenness made her quite inarticulate. "Did I confess love tonight?" Booth asked, as the elevator began to ascend. "What was I thinking?" Brennan slumped into the corner, drawing her knees to her chest, pressing her head to her legs.

"You do love me," she said, her voice muffled. He grumbled to himself, crossing his arms and realising that the prospect of steamy 'just confessed love' sex was definitely out of the question. Bones could barely recite her name.

When the elevator had stopped at four floors, she spoke. "Booth?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm horny."

Oh, so now she was going to torment him with it? What an evil little minx.

"Tomorrow, Bones." He growled through gritted teeth, eyes fixed firmly upon the numbers above the door. Why had they stopped moving? Shit. He jabbed the button, hard. "It's stuck. Bones! You did break it!" She mumbled vaguely.

"I don't want to wait until tomorrow," she said.

"You've got us trapped." He slammed his palm against the door. "Can anyone hear me?" He called, pounding his fist. Despite the noise, it proved ineffectual.

"Are you horny, Booth?" Brennan asked, her voice persistent in the back of his mind.

"We're stuck, Bones." He said, his head falling against the door in frustration. He had a presentation tomorrow at eight am. If he missed it, he'd have his ass chewed out by almost every member of the FBI who had authority.

"Who was Mulder and Scully?" He sighed, sinking to his knees in something approaching despair.

"Bones…"

"'Cause everyone says I'm Scully. Was she an anthropologist too?"

"No, Bones. She was an FBI agent." He dug his fingers into his hair, into his scalp, wondering if he pressed hard enough would the nightmare go away.

"For _real_?" Brennan had wide eyes, now. Enthralled.

"No. She was fictional."

"Did she have a gun?" Brennan moved towards him, her face close his. He caught the scent of wine on her breath and wondered what her lips would taste like. He changed his mind immediately.

"Of course she did." He said, turning to the panel. There was only one light lit now. Her floor.

Damn his luck.

"Why do people think I'm her, then? She didn't do what I do," Brennan said, tilting her head, her eyes conveying her mystification.

"Because…" Booth stopped. "It doesn't matter, Bones. Look, is there someone you can call? Someone who can get us out of here?" She pouted a little.

"Otis?"

"Otis?" He repeated.

"The elevator man. He's called Otis," she explained, as though he were stupid. "He has it sown unto his shirt," she pressed her finger against her breast. "Here." He glanced there, only for a nanosecond, frightened at how he hardened at the image alone.

"Bones, Otis makes the elevators. Otis are the elevator people." She gasped.

"There's more than one?" He scratched his head.

"I think you should sleep." Her head dropped to his shoulder, her fingers dancing over his torso. If she moved her hand a few inches, her interest would be aroused by how hard he was. He grabbed her wrist, lacing his fingers with hers.

"I'm horny," Brennan said again. Booth closed his eyes.

"You mentioned that," he replied patiently.

"Yes, and you love me." Temperance shuffled closer, burrowing her nose in his neck, her lips skimming his throat.

"Yes, I do." Booth swallowed.

"Aren't you supposed to make my horniness go away?" He stroked her hair, willing her to settle down, to sleep. At least until he thought of a way out. He could call Angela. But then she'd bombard them with questions, hundreds of them. His head hurt at the prospect alone.

"I will, Bones. When we get to your apartment." She played with a loose thread on her blouse, humming under her breath. She was thinking. Temperance Brennan and thought were a dangerous combination.

"If I am Scully does that mean you're this Mulder fellow?" Was the best train of thought she could accumulate.

"Well… apparently it does." He nodded, once. As long as he kept her off the topic of sex, they might be okay.

"And did they have sex?" She asked.

Damn his _cursed_ luck.

"I'm really not sure…"

"Angela said they did. And that they were hot."

"Well… if Angela says…"

"So then we should have sex, too. Right?" Booth exhaled, his head falling back against the fall. It hurt. He wished he'd knocked himself out.

"Tomorrow, Bones."

She sighed. "I know you're hard." Her eyes were luminous with mischief. His jaw tightened. "I know you're thinking of me naked and you want to have sex here. Don't you, Booth?"

"Bones… can you call Hodgins, please?"

"I don't do threesomes."

"Oh Jesus… _Bones… please_."

"Alright." She pulled her phone from her pocket, spent two minutes wondering pondering over her phone book and the many names, and finally dialled Hodgins.

He didn't answer.

Booth felt his headache penetrate his skull. "Okay… call Angela."

Angela answered in two rings.

"Hi Ange, it's me. Booth and I have got ourselves fucked in the elevator and I was wondering if you could come and help us out."

Silence then a giggle that even Booth could hear.

"Oh sweetie I'd _love_ to!"


	8. The Weekend Away

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **I don't own these characters.

**Rating: **This chapter is a T. But the subsequent ones will be M.

**A/N: **This is for BonesDBchippie. I changed the initial plan, quite a bit really. But, the ideas we had for what they can do will be in the next chapter. I hope you like it chick. I sure enjoyed writing this one. And thanks for the little shove in the right direction. It's about time I got around to a new chapter in this!

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"So, what are we doing here, then?" Brennan asked, turning in a full circle.

She admired the size of the room, the high four poster bed, the spectacular view over the lake, and knew exactly why they were there. It was officially their 'first weekend away'.

"Don't you like Vermont?" Booth asked, thrusting open the balcony doors, tempting the sweet summer air into their bedroom. The curtains fluttered, and she shrugged.

"Yeah…" she really did, too. There was something so nice about being away from the city. Outside, beyond the sparkling blue lake, the hills rose to the cloudless blue sky, a blanket of leafy green. She saw no buildings except for the small timber farm shed at the base of the rising slope. The owner of the hotel suggested they take a walk around the lake because the scenery was 'spectacular'.

"Then take off your shoes, Bones, and relax." She sat in the cushioned arm chair, her back sinking into its softness. The flight hadn't taken long, nor had the drive to the secluded hotel, but she felt weary – her muscles ached and it felt liberating, almost, to look outside and see such natural, unspoilt beauty.

Complying, she slipped her feet out of her boots and untied her hair. Booth watched her for a moment, his eyes darkly aroused. The effect of her free-flowing hair was instantaneous. She chuckled inwardly, wondering at how insatiable her new lover was.

"Bones…" he murmured, running her fingers over the crown of her head. She titled into his touch. "This weekend, are forbidden to talk about two things, okay?" Never likely to agree to a contract without reading it carefully, Brennan pulled away and lifted her eyes to his face.

"What two things?" She asked, suspicious. He smiled at her instant distrust. Brennan thought everyone was up to something. His joke about how she should have been in The X-Files fell flat, because of course, Brennan didn't 'know what that means'.

"The words 'Federal Bureau of Investigation' and 'Jeffersonian' are out of the question until Monday morning." He slipped his hand into her burgundy coat and removed her cell-phone. She made a futile grab for it. "These," he said, pulling his own from his jeans, "are going to be turned off. Personal time means just that."

Her half-hearted protests sounded as empty as she felt they were. Inwardly, she knew Booth was right. But it would be a icy day in hell before she ever admitted it. Especially to him. "Do you want to sleep?" Brennan asked, watching as he tucked their phones into his bag and zipped them inside.

"We didn't come here to sleep," Booth said, running his eyes over her face, along her neck, to where her v-necked shirt dipped low enough to reveal the lacy edge of her ivory bra. His expression clouded in a way she instantly recognised as pure lust. His lips curled in a semi-smile, and she folded her hands over her torso.

"Didn't we? I thought we came to relax…" His eyes flickered to her face and he recovered his composure quickly.

"Of course we did, Bones," he replied, slipping ten dollars from his pocket. "You know what we can get with ten bucks?" She shook her head, wispy strands of her hair brushing her cheeks as she did. Her hair, and the scent of it, drove him wild. "A rowing boat," he explained, shaking the note.

"You want us to go… rowing?" She sounded incredulous, her eyebrows arched. "Hang on whilst I dress in my Little Bo Peep dress and frilly umbrella…" she chuckled at her own humour, and Booth just frowned in contemplation.

"Do you _have_ a Little Bo Peep dress? 'Cause that would be interesting to see." She snagged an pine-cone from the decorative bowl on the table next to her and tossed it at him. He chuckled, catching it easily. "Come on, Bones, it'll be romantic. I'm have a romantic soul." She knew it, too. He'd been full of sweet ideas in the past month. Most of those ideas revolved around an entire day spent between her sheets, experimenting fully. She was instantly aroused at the very thought of his last venture.

Vanilla ice cream made his tongue very cold. But not cold enough that she didn't shudder every time it touched her clitoris.

"You alright, Bones?" He asked, rolling the ten dollars and tucking it into his pocket again. She stood, pressing her fingertips to her fevered cheeks.

"Lets do the rowing thing, then," she said, snagging her jacket off the bed. He followed her to the door, his fingers brushing her waist as he touched her, so subtly she could have believed it was by mistake. But none of Booth's touches were accidental. Each one was planned with a tactic in mind. She'd come to realise Booth had very good tactical skills.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The lake bathed in a summery sun, was pleasantly warm when she dipped her hand into its waters, fifteen minutes later.

Before her, Booth pulled and pushed the long oak oars, dragging their little boat through the dark blue lake. High in the trees, birds chirped, filling the air with their melodic song. Brennan closed her eyes, and listened.

Instead of hearing cars, honking and sirens, she heard nature. Undisturbed nature. The birds, the rustling trees in the summer breeze, the rhythmic _swoosh_ of the oars moving through the air, the splash as they impacted the water, and the droplets falling as they rose out again. She smiled.

"You look happy," Booth commented, stopping. The boat slowed moving only with the breeze-swept current.

"I am," she admitted, opening her eyes. "I really am." Her life had been filled with so much sorrow and pain – but since she'd found Booth, and their lives and merged into something she could only describe as perfect companionship, she'd been so happy. They connected. They were normal. It felt peculiar, but warm and comforting.

"I am too, Bones," he said. Next week, she was staying with him whilst he had Parker for the weekend. She was frightened as hell, but exhilarated that she'd been invited into the private part of his life. To be introduced into his son's life. As his… what… girlfriend?

She liked to think there was something else between them. There was something about the name 'girlfriend' and its associated 'boyfriend' that made her think they were beyond it's childish tag. Booth was, without a doubt, more than just a 'boyfriend'. She felt a deeper connection than that.

"Next week is a big thing…" she said, voicing her thoughts. Booth nodded.

"Yes. But don't worry, Parker will love you, Bones." Brennan smiled, shifting on her seat, nodding her head. "Because you're wonderful and he shares his daddy's judge of character." She thought of the little boy, who shared more than just his father's personality. He had the same dark looks and depthless eyes. She still remembered the staggering resemblance from the first time she'd met the boy.

When the hotel was out of sight, Booth switched seats, sitting next to her on the old wooden bench-style seat, the only sound now was the birds, and the trees, and the lake gently lapping at the pebbly beach. Brennan felt his arm slip around her waist, his thumb slipping beneath her shirt, rubbing circles against her skin. She leaned into him, the scent of him – the one that she associated with only him – lingered in the air, spicy and intoxicating.

"So, Booth," she said, bumping his knee with hers. "What _did_ we come here for, then?" He turned his head, passing his lips along the shell of her ear. She trembled as his breath caressed her lobe.

"Well, today, I plan on making love to you. All day." She hummed in response, quite liking the idea. "Then tomorrow, it's in the itinerary to… make love… all day." She giggled, swatting his hand, turning to stare into his eyes, wide with arousal and love. Love like she'd never seen before.

"And what about Sunday?" He leaned forward, passing his lips over hers, his tongue tracing a moist, sweet line. She sighed against his mouth, her fingers curling in anticipation of the wondrous things that were to come – if she kept his promise of sweet love making, that was.

"Well, on Sunday we leave in the afternoon. So we have the morning free." She nodded against his lips, her eyes falling shut.

"And until the afternoon…?"

"Well I was thinking," he said huskily, "that we could make love…" she giggled again, allowing his tongue into her mouth. A soft moan escaped both their lips, as his arms folded around her and their entire bodies merged.

"I don't have a problem with that…" she replied, her body humming at the prospect of their three uninterrupted days of languorous, indolent and sultry sex.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

I wrote this chapter listening to a track called _The Romantic Sea of Tranquillity_. I am gutted that I only found it today because it was the most gorgeous track ever. Basically it's a relaxation tune, filled with the sound of the ocean lapping the shore and a little guitar ballad. It lasts for six minutes and I have it on repeat. It set the mood for me, so very well.

I hope you enjoyed. Was wondering, does anyone want to see Booth and Brennan's dirty weekend played out?


	9. Rocking the Boat

**Title**_This is Life_

**Disclaimer: **Oh, how I wished I owned them. But I don't.

**Rating: **I would rate this one an M.

**A/N: **I hope there is still enough interest in this story to keep it going. I know it's been such a long time since I updated. I apologise for that. But I have switched my music to an equally gorgeous Chinese Mediation track and I just wanted to write about the boat and the lake for a little while longer – at least while my inspiration was around. Let me know if you liked.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

They lay on the floor of the small boat, their legs draped over the narrow bench, staring at the infinite blue sky above their heads. Booth, with his hands folded neatly atop his torso, and only the smallest band of bronzed skin exposed by his creeping shirt, sighed softly and smiled.

"This is nice," he said. Brennan hummed, turning her head to observe the dusting to dark coarse hair that ran along his belly.

"It is," she agreed, nodding slowly. "A vast difference from the city life I am used to." He grumbled accordingly, unlinking his fingers and reaching across to grasp her hand. She turned her palm upward, welcoming his touch.

Their little boat rocked gently in the afternoon breeze, and far above their heads, a flock of birds circled and twittered happily. She could easily have fallen asleep. But Booth's voice, low but insistent kept her fully conscious. "Do you think this will last forever, Bones?" He asked, and she turned her head again, blinking twice.

"What?" She asked.

"This," Booth said, waving to the tranquillity that almost enveloped them. "Us." She squeezed his fingers a little, looking up at the sky around them.

"Well, by Monday we'll have to leave all this – reality beckons… but us… yeah… I'm pretty sure…"

"Pretty sure?"

"As sure as I can be in a world where anything is possible and, with an infinite amount of possibilities it is logical that I cannot say for _definite_ whether we will or won't be together forever," she paused and swallowed. "But I am as sure as I can be, yes."

Booth chuckled, and the sound seemed perfectly at home with the serene and peaceable noises of nature. "I love you, despite your insanely analytical mind," he said, glancing sideways at her. She cleared her throat.

"Despite my analytical mind?" Brennan queried. "You mean you don't love it too?" Another chuckle followed, and she felt warm at the free at which it came forth. Back in DC he wasn't quite so liberated. But neither was she. If only Angela could see her lying now, at the bottom of a rowing boat, holding hands with Booth like a love-struck teenager.

"Yeah… I love it, too." She closed her eyes, cocooned in the summery warmth and the scent of leaves and flowers. "Bones?" She hummed again. "In your analytical mind, do you imagine you'll ever stop loving me?" Brennan shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Depends. Is this weekend of love-making limited to once a year?" Booth turned to his side, slipping his free hand beneath her shirt. She felt his fingertips stroke her sternum, and their proximity to her breasts made her nipples harden.

"Hell no," he whispered huskily. She opened her eyes, her gaze smoky and lusty.

"Then I doubt I will ever _willingly_ stop loving you." He smiled, kissing the column of her throat, nipping softly at the tender flesh until she sighed.

"Is that your analytical way of saying that sometimes things can take an unstoppable turn and…" she nodded, kissing his temple. "Well, if willingly is all I am going to get, I'd be a fool not to take it." Brennan let his fingers cup her breast and his thumb circle her nipple, so slowly, she almost wanted to scream.

When his attentions ceased, she mourned the loss of his touch, and released his hand, searching for his head. He touched her lips, unhurried. She stroked her fingers through his hair, over his scalp, her mouth moving against his. Booth tasted delicious, like the beer he'd drank on the plane and the tangy green apple he'd munched in the car over to the hotel.

When she sucked a deep breath, his fingers shifted deftly, slipping beneath the waist of her pants. He touched her, slowly, sensually, as if their outdoor display of affection didn't matter. She wondered if, anyone standing on the hillside were looking down, would they see how his fingers stroked her, now? Would they see their mutual excitement?

Brennan was surprised by how little she cared. With he rubbed slow circles, she felt elated. She felt as though they were the only two people in the universe, and the whispering water, brushing against the shore and the birds around them were merely a soundtrack to their intimate lovemaking. She liked the feeling of being part of a couple. Especially when, here, she could fantasise that they were two lovers in an empty world.

Booth slipped his fingers inside her, smiling against her mouth when she moaned aloud. Stroking and thrusting made her insides coil, and her heart beat a crazy staccato against her ribs. She leaned into him, murmuring his name when he applied pressure to her swollen nub.

She called him Seeley.

It took lots for her to revert to his given name. She liked how it sounded on her lips, though.

"Seeley…" she whispered again, mulling it over. "You make it… so good…" she found herself thinking about the same thing, every single time Booth brought her to orgasm. How he was the best lover she'd _ever_ had. No one had ever gone to such lengths to ensure she was pleasured.

When she finished panting, he removed his fingers and kissed her nose, which she immediately wrinkled. "What about you…?" She asked, feebly touching his steely erection within his jeans. He smiled against her ear.

"I'll be inside you within an hour," he promised, teasing her senses by cheekily licking the most sensitive part of her lobe – right at the bottom, where normally her earrings would have obstructed any such attempts at arousal. Today, she wore diamond studs that didn't dangle.

"An hour? So soon… normally you prolong the agony…" he slipped his dexterous tongue over her jaw.

"There's plenty of time for that, Bones," he promised, the implication remaining unspoken. "But for now, all I want to do is bury myself inside you." He sat, leaving her alone, post-orgasm, her cheeks rosy, and began to row the little boat back along the mirror smooth waters of the lake.

She closed her eyes, still laying on the floor, and allowed herself to imagine just how wonderful her weekend would be.

Sitting up, she took her seat opposite, and drank in their surroundings again. As far as she could tell, no one had witnessed their brief lapse into something approaching outdoor sex, but then, she couldn't be sure. It didn't matter though. She felt blissful, tingling at the prospects of later. Too many sexual thoughts trickled through her stupefied mind to worry about the repercussions of being caught with her lover's hand down her pants.

"Booth?" She asked, straightening, gaining composure.

"Hmm?"

"You know how much I love you, right?" His eyes flickered from the reflective water, and he smiled.

"Yes I do, Bones," he replied.

"And I'll love you even more, after this weekend." He laughed, upping his rowing pace a little.

"I fully intend on it," he said.

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Review! Review! Review! If I don't wake up with fifteen emails in my inbox (at least) tomorrow, I am boycotting everyone! He! He! Only kidding – but please review!


	10. Euphoria

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **I don't own these characters. I've been watching _Angel_ reruns all day because we have them broadcast throughout the day on like three different channels, and, I am saddened to say, I don't own him either (not that he's mentioned in this…) but damn, I wish I did because he is one sexy fucking vampire! (If only he was literally fucking… okay… moving on…)

**Rating: **This chapter is rated M.

**A/N: **I think I covered my notes in the disclaimer, actually. How hot is he? Hmm…? Thanks for all the wonderful reviews! Please don't hesitate to send me more!

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He tasted like everything that was right and perfect.

Like fresh spring mornings – clean and pure, and spicy musk that was safe and masculine and his skin radiated a warmth that made her own flesh prickle with a need to have him as close as possible.

He had firm muscles all over his body. None of his physique was unappealing to her roving eye. His arms, defined and worked, flexed when he reached for her. She stepped aside, wanting, not to be held, yet. She wanted to drink the image of his perfection.

Booth had nice forearms; firm, bronzed and dusted with a sprinkling of dark hair. His biceps, not over indulgent, complimented his trim, masculine frame without imposing – without reminding her of an egotistical muscle man. Sometimes, Seeley Booth liked to permeate an air of confidence, and yes, confident he was, but he did not flaunt his loveliness. He was unassuming, sometimes. Unassuming in ways she liked.

His fingers shifted as he contemplated reaching for her again, but she merely smiled, raking her eyes over his defined pectorals, the smooth line of his breastbone, the well-formed, undulating lines of his abdominals and the fine trail of hair that disappeared enticingly beneath his waistband.

Brennan blinked slowly. He aroused her, just by looking at him. Oh, perfect he was, indeed!

The stereo in their room, a fairly high-tech piece of equipment for such a dated hotel, played the soft reedy melodies of a saxophone, and the raw sexiness of the sound it emanated made her want to undress – made her want to be touched. To be fucked.

Brennan cringed at her own thought. Fucked, she thought, was quite a vulgar word. Especially to describe sex. She wasn't an old-fashioned traditionalist by any means, but things with Booth… they went beyond sex and fucking. There was a distinct romantic connection, but God almighty, she wanted to be wild and uninhibited.

Booth sensed her need, and she relinquished any further ideas she might have had about pulling away. When he reached for her, snagging her wrists, she fell into him, her fingers searching his warm skin, her mouth opening under his.

She was entranced by his ferociousness, and how his fingers tightened into her skin, until she was aware of nothing but the numbing grip he held on her. Booth broke their kiss, passing his lips over the shell of her ear. Her nipples tightened as he released her hands and undressed her with a deliberate slowness that made each millimetre of touched skin tingle.

She undressed him as he undressed her, leisurely and deliberate, and she knew he was teasing her, making her wait.

Booth brought her to the bed, and she lay against the pillows at his silent command. He touched her, made her lungs ache with a desperate need to breathe, and her heart fluttered each time his lips passed over the inside of her thigh. She felt worshipped and adored -- just as she always did when he touched her body.

He prolonged her agony for over fifteen minutes, using his tongue in ways she'd come to realise were unlike any lover before him. His unselfishness was unparalleled, as he spent a painstaking amount of time ensuring she was pleasured – and Brennan was euphoric by the time he slid inside her with a guttural plea to God.

Despite the time he'd taken to tease and arouse her to near boiling point, Booth had remained true to his word; he was inside her in less than an hour and it felt better with each long stroke he took.

She came first, his name muffled against his lips as she cried into his kiss. Booth held her, his fingers laced into her hair, his thrusts matching her trembling. He plunged into her twice more, his own rapture meeting hers, their voices a tangled symphony of pants and groans and exclamations of love and pleasure.

The saxophone faded in the midst of their crescendo, and Brennan fell against him, her hair sprawled over his shoulder, their bodies slick. "I love you, Bones," he said, aware of how unnecessary his proclamation was. It may have sounded trite, but he never tired of telling her just how important she was to him.

He slipped from within her and she whimpered softly at the loss. His lips skimmed her shoulder, as he manoeuvred, to ensconce her in his embrace. She settled against him, her sweet breath passing over his skin in unsteady bursts. She smiled, returning his declaration.

"I love you, too," she said, brushing her hand over his chest, along the hard planes of his torso, which flexed beneath her tender touch. "I am so looking forward to what's coming…" His fingers found hers, linking in a slow, momentary dance. "Any clues?" He pressed a kiss to her forehead, looking down on her with a dark intensity that she'd come to recognise as Booth's fear. He was sometimes afraid to love her, and although she'd come to identify these moments of silent despair, she never broached the subject of what caused the dark yet luminous fear she saw within his eyes.

She suspected it wasn't so much that he was afraid to love her but rather he was afraid to lose her. Brennan tightened her grip in an unspoken reassurance.

"Well," he replied, the darkness gone, replaced by a twinkling mischief. "If I told you it involved silk scarves and you surrendering yourself, what would you say?" Her nipples tightened against his side, and she grinned.

"What are we waiting for then?"

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It's the season finale of Bones tonight! I can't wait to see it! So maybe there will be some Woman in Limbo fics tomorrow, hmm?

Let me know if you liked this…


	11. Paradise in Vermont

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **These characters do not belong to me.

**Rating: **M, because I don't want to get into trouble.

**A/N: **I almost feel as though I am in a hotel room in Vermont. Might I add, I have never been to Vermont in my life. In fact, I don't even _live_ in the US, so, I'm probably wrong on the details, but, I really have a picture in my mind here. God, let me tell you, nothing inspires like meditation music, check it out!

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"Is that a… flute?" Brennan asked, sinking into the foamy vanilla bubbles that rose into the air and floated eloquently to the floor beneath the bathtub. Behind her, Booth hummed in her ear.

"I believe it is, my dear," he chuckled in response. The stereo and the melodic music that accompanied it was something she's grown used to, now. The CD, a long play of various, stimulating instrumentals had been the soundtrack to their slow love making. The harmonious flute made her sink into the bubbles and surrender herself to his arms.

"It's nice…" She sighed, his fingers stroking along her arms, a trail of scented foam scaring her milky flesh.

"Indeed it is," Booth replied. "I love being with you when you're so relaxed," he said, nuzzling her damp hair with his nose. She smelt like the crème and herself. Her hair darkened when it was wet, to an almost mahogany colour – brown, tinged with the darkest of reds. She looked wilder, less groomed and more like a woman who was willing to open up.

Brennan reached across, pushing the button set into the wall which activated the churning jettisons that turned their simple bath into a Jacuzzi. With anyone else, she'd have grinned at the sleazy cliché of it. But Booth wasn't anyone else. And it felt inexplicably nice.

"You mean you don't love being with me when I'm stressed?" She joked, linking her fingers with his. Booth brushed aside the darkened hair from her temple and rubbed a circle there for a moment.

"I love being with you _all_ the time, Temperance," he said, and his usage of her given name, as if never failed to do, made her tremble inside. She was Bones or Brennan and she was likely to be that forever – and ordinarily, she didn't mind. But there was something so inordinately special about how she felt when he spoke her name.

"You realise we are pathetic, right? That this whole gross and icky display of affection isn't us…" he chuckled into her shoulder, his stubble doing crazy things to her womb. Her skin felt sensitive enough, but when he rubbed stubble… _Jesus_…

"Pathetic, Bones? I am so totally insulted…" she leaned into him. "You're probably right though… under no circumstances can this be mentioned back in DC. If anyone at the-" she pressed two fingers to his lips, shaking her head and effectively silencing him. When he frowned, she replaced her fingers with her lips and kissed him slowly.

"There are two unmentionables this weekend, and you almost violated your own rule…" Booth held her tighter, nodding. "I'm not a rule breaker and since you sequestered my cell phone…" He ran his fingertips along the base of her neck, watching at how she was silenced by his touch, watching how easily he could manipulate her flesh. She was soft and feminine all over, and he loved to feel her entire body, pressed against his.

The pitch of the flute, with its melodious notes, seemed to drift around the bathroom, filling every corner with music that originated from no discernable point. It felt almost as though they were in the midst of it.

"Bones, we need to invest in a good sound system like this," Booth said, rubbing long, slow circles over her abdomen.

"We?" She said, eyebrow raised.

"Hmm… yes, that sounded very… couple-ish, didn't it. I am disgusted with myself." Brennan smiled, the palm of her hand swiping across the angular shape of his jaw.

"I like it," she said. "The 'we' element. I've never had that before." She saw the compassion in his eyes, the way he searched her face, drinking in the moment they shared. They'd shared so many lovely moments in their brief time together.

"Neither have I," he said, sinking his fingers into her hair and bringing her mouth to his for a long, slow kiss. She relished in it, the elusive and tantalizing sweep of his tongue over her lips, and how, when she opened her mouth to receive him, he did not comply, instead teasing her with the merest of whispering touches. At that moment she loathed him for his cruelty yet loved him more than she'd loved anyone in her life.

His hand slipped beneath the warm scented water and urged her thighs apart. She obeyed, breathless with anticipation. He touched her, gently, his movements easy and unhurried. Her lips parted again, and this time, he slipped his tongue inside, teasing her own into a languid dance. Her eyes fell closed, and she felt him harden against her spine.

Reaching behind, Brennan took him in her hand and, with the same slow deliberation, stroked him, until his breath matched her own. Around them, bubbling pods of water ruptured, and the sound of that, coupled with the flute made her believe she was in paradise. Paradise in Vermont. Didn't people associate Vermont with skiing? She would never again associate it with anything other than how contented she felt within its tranquil beauty; a little hotel in the middle of nowhere.

Their eyes met, glazed with passion, while inside, Brennan felt a thousand emotions ravage her soul – and none of them she could adequately explain. Was it possible to love someone so much? Was it wise? Or was it insanely foolish? She didn't know, but with each precise passing touch of his fingertip, the thoughts vanished from her mind that was overcome with desire and something a lot more primal than emotion.

"Booth…" she exhaled, the coil tightening until she thought it might explode. His expression was placid as she stroked him faster, their movements hurried, now. "Are you…?"

"Yes…" he replied, knowing instinctively what she wanted to ask. This time, they came together, stroke for stroke. Brennan's limbs felt weak, from the soothing heat and the intensity of her orgasm. As she inhaled a deep satisfying breath that was infused with the scent of vanilla, she found herself feeling free, unbound and untouched by the sadness that had tinged her life for so many years. For the first time since adolescence she felt, honest-to-God happy beyond explanation. Perhaps, if she was willing to admit it, she had been since the moment Booth came into her life – at least her private life, whipping her emotions into a frenzy and making her feel. Opening her soul to… well… him.

"So," she said, pressing her fevered cheek to his chest. "Should we order some dinner and then see what you can do with those scarves?" Booth smiled, his eyes bright.

She slipped from the tub, bubbles and water cascading along her body. He was quiet for a long few moments, watching following the trail left behind as it snaked over her breasts, along her abdomen, down her thighs to her toes, her candy-coloured toes. He wanted to touch her already.

"You are…" he paused, swallowing hard and shaking his head slowly. "Truly amazing, Bones." She wrapped her hair in a towel, her moist naked body displayed to him only a moment more, until she slipped into a flannel robe and tied the belt around her waist.

"I'm hungry, Booth," she said. "But once we've eaten, I'll show you just how amazing I think you are. How about it?" He switched the jettisons off, and wrapped a towel around his waist, following her into the bedroom where she was already on the telephone, speaking with the restaurant. He loved how the little hotel offered all the classy indulgences of a big franchise.

When she replaced the handset, he parted the folds of her robe and took a turgid nipple into his mouth. She gasped her appreciation immediately. He smiled against her malleable flesh.

There were _plenty_ of things he could do, while he waited on dinner.

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Let me know if you like-y.


	12. Ties That Bind

**Title**: This is Life

**Disclaimer: **Well, I tied the CEO of Fox to a chair and demanded that he release all the rights to Bones to me. But he called security who gave me to the police who had me deported. So they're still not mine.

**Rating: **M-diddly-dee

**A/N: **Massive thanks to everyone who's reviewed! So glad you like Booth and Brennan's dirty weekend. I'm thinking of throwing some angst into the next couple of chapters, after this one. Let me know what you think!

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_The Ties That Bind…_

There were two silken scarves. At approximately a foot each, their soft, luxurious fabric curled easily around her wrists and around the thick oak columns of their bed. She didn't fight him, or express how relinquishing her freedom made her feel a little anxious on the inside. Her stomach knotted and her heart pounded erratically against her ribs as he parted the folds of her bathrobe, running the flat of his palm over her belly as she sucked a deep, shaky breath into her lungs.

When his fingertips touched upon the flesh over her pounding heart, his eyes flickered to meets hers, dark and expressive. Then he said the words which made all the pent-up anxiety evaporate from her body.

"Trust me." Her eyes fell shut as his fingers began a slow, thorough examination of her body, over her throat, her clavicle, paying particular attention to her breasts, how her nipples tightened to turgid, aching points, her ribs, which he silently counted as he moved over each one, the concave of her torso when she inhaled deeply, her bellybutton, over her thighs, touching his lips to the little spot behind her knee, down over her ankles to her toes.

He liked her toes.

The soles of her feet were ticklish, and when his stubble brushed the velvety skin there, she jerked within her ties, whispering a harsh prayer for release. He kissed the steep arch of her foot, smiling against her skin, and she murmured his name, over and over like a fevered mantra.

When he stopped, she sagged against the mattress, begging that he not continue his torturous exploration. He chuckled, tonguing her bellybutton. "No way," he replied, twisting his tongue slowly, her hips thrusting, her eyes screwed shut.

"Please Booth…" she said, shaking her wrists – which proved ineffectual. "How long will you…?" His lips curved against her.

"However long it takes me make you come…" he replied, "without me being inside you." She seemed to a tremble a little at this. His ministrations continued, his lips touching upon the sides of her breasts, extraordinarily careful not to move too close to her taut nipples. When he reached her lips, she was begging him to touch her properly. He laughed. "Patience… Bones… patience."

Her protests were silenced by his kiss, deep and hard. She leaned into it, her body relaxed beneath his.

The balcony doors lay open, and a humid breeze swept into the room, the gossamer curtains rising, ghostly and mythical. He slipped his hand over her body, listening to her whimper against his lips, and he smiled inwardly. Brennan was his. Even when she wasn't at his mercy, tied to a bed, she was his! They belonged to each other.

He kissed her, touching her until she trembled beneath his attention, her teeth clamping on his lips for a moment as she convulsed and quivered. He didn't stop touching her until her bliss has subsided and her moans quieted. When they did, she exhaled deeply and pulled on the ties.

He eased the knots, releasing her wrists, watching as she massaged the reddened skin, there. "Booth?" She said, tossing the slips of silk away. "I want you to be inside me now, okay?" He was certainly ready. He'd been hard since dinner arrived and it had taken all his will power not to forego his 'slow seduction' idea and just fuck her.

When he complied, he wondered how, in just a short few moments Brennan was ready for more. Had he gotten himself involved with a nymphomaniac? Lord, he'd found many a naughty secret about Temperance in their time as lovers. Such as, what she called her 'inane desire' to find out how her sofa held up under the strain of their love-making or, was their enough room in his SUV…?

They'd tested the theory of the car during a long drive to Virginia two weekends ago, and, as it happened, there was plenty of room.

And even now, as he thrust into her, he wondered at their sexual exploits. Brennan was braver and more daring than he could have imagined. Even though there was no possible way anyone could have seen them inside the car, it was a daring attempt. She was vocal, too. When, in the throes of passion, Brennan voiced all her thoughts – and he liked the transformation. She'd become uninhibited, free from reservations. He stroked her cheek, listening to her as she encouraged his movements.

She clenched her walls around him, and he came, certain that no one had ever made him feel the way Brennan did. Her body moved against his, she sighed his name and fell limply against the pillows. Booth wondered if anyone in the rooms next to theirs could hear their activities.

Somehow, he didn't care. Brennan made him happy. If she wanted to exercise her vocal chords, he was okay with that. She brushed damp hair from her eyes, turning to her side and smiling.

"You're good at this," she said, and he lifted her hand, examining the pinkish marks left behind from the scarves. "I think we'll be returning home on Monday more tired than we were when we left." Booth smiled, touching his lips to her fingertips.

"Lets hope so," he said.

Soon, when they made their relationship knowledge to everyone – which still included all her colleagues except Angela, they'd be more than just lovers. They'd be a partnership – a real couple. He thought about it as she pulled the blanket over their bodies and nestled into his side. It made sense that a relationship was an eventuality, because they'd been acting that way for awhile, now. It was an unconfirmed relationship, but one nonetheless.

"When we get back on Monday," he said, slipping his arm around her shoulders. "We should make plans to tell everyone." Brennan nodded slowly.

"Yes," she replied. "We should."

It was with these three words that he realised they'd confirmed status. Although they'd already admitted love, this new admission brought the prospect of a life together.

Nuzzling her hair with his nose, he realised he was far from opposed to that.

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Angst is coming up! Teary moments, folks. Well, for me anyway!


	13. Season of Loss

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **No infringement intended. Honest.

**Rating: **This one is rated a T.

**A/N: **I am hope you all like this. There is nothing too dark, although, I have saddened myself a little with my cruelty, but, I promise, things will be rectified and there is light at the end of the tunnel… somewhere…

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Summer came and went.

The flowers blossomed and now, as autumn approached relentlessly, they began to die. Outside the Jeffersonian the gardens had changed dramatically in a few short weeks – the vibrant pinks and purples replaced by earthier reds and browns. The trees darkened, and the wide maple leaves began to fall, blanketing the manicured lawns with a crisp vitality that was completely different to spring and summer.

It was the 'post death' month. It seemed almost as though the leaves struggled to offer one final burst of colour before fading. In retrospect, autumn and what it symbolised was the perfect time for death. As perfect as any time could be.

After their trip to Vermont, things had escalated to the point where he thought it was apt to say he was 'deliriously happy'. She glowed when their eyes met, spent the weekends welcoming his son, laughed at his jokes and became so comfortable with him that he couldn't have imagined his life without her.

He still couldn't.

Sipping coffee by the gallery window, Booth stifled the overwhelming grief and guilt, screwing his eyes shut and telling himself to take it like a man. His impatience at his own emotion proved ineffectual, for his remorse blocked out all the sense that tried to leak through – that tried to tell him she wasn't dead. _Wasn't_ dead. To him, the gap between 'nearly' and 'actually' was too close. Too damn close.

Tossing the half empty cup in the trash can, he pressed his forehead to the glass and watched as a terracotta coloured leaf fell from the tree at the far end of the garden. Behind him, he felt a hand, tentative and kind, rest upon his shoulder, followed by a small sigh.

"Go home," Angela said, her fingers tightening a little. He closed his eyes, a headache pounding behind his eyeballs. "Standing here isn't going to do anything, you know. If you go-"

"I don't want to go home, Angela," he said, his knuckles white as he clinched the metal railing that traced the circumference of the inner building. "If I go home, I'll be reminded of the fact that Brennan is in hospital. If I go to the office, I'll feel guilty that I'm not there with her and…" his breath shuddered, "if I go to the hospital I'm not sure I can handle seeing her, yet…" Their mutual friend dropped her eyes, sympathy written into her features. "If I'm here, I'm surrounded by her. But objectively. Not personally." Angela's hand slipped from his shoulder, and she crossed her arms.

In the main lab below, a whistle echoed. "Hey, Angela! You up there?" She stood on tip-toes, peering over the railing.

"I'll be there in a minute, Jack!" She called, turning back to Booth. "There's a new body in and I'm meant to be working on it." He nodded, releasing the railing with a heavy sigh.

"Don't let me keep you," he said. "I don't want to be in anyone's way. I'm just here until the doctor calls with… some news."

'Some news' meant that she was either alive or dead. He should have been with her, at least holding her hand or coaxing her from the depthless medically induced sleep she was in. "The doctor said the surgery could take awhile… and he'd let me know how it went." Angela nodded.

"Booth… what happened out there?"

What happened? What happened? The question had echoed in his mind all day. It resounded and each time it did, the implication added another pile of guilt to the heap which had already accumulated. "She didn't…" he stopped, drawing his tongue over his dry lips. "She didn't get her vest on in time. The bastard…" his voice broke a little but he regained composure after a few moments of mental coaxing. "The bastard pumped four bullets into her. He hit her left shoulder… her right thigh… her hip and her stomach. It's my fault, Angela." It was the first time he'd spoken the words to anyone. Even to himself. He hadn't verbalised his guilt.

"Don't talk bullshit!" Angela snapped, snagging his wrist and yanking his arm until he spun, eyes wide at her conviction. "Brennan follows you because she wants to! How could you have stopped what happened? How…?" He shook his head numbly. How, indeed? He didn't know – but there had to have been a way. Even if _he'd_ taken the bullets instead. If he'd jumped in front of her a few seconds earlier! His body was bigger than hers. "You can't answer me, Booth, because you're talking shit. She-"

"She could die, Angela. She could…" his voice trembled again. "It's easier to feel guilt than contemplate my life without her." She'd looked so frail, so different form the Brennan he'd known, as they hefted her into the back of an ambulance, her fingers trying to find his. She looked afraid. His Temperance, afraid.

"She won't die, Booth," Angela said with the same ferocious conviction. "Stop it, okay? Your foolish self flagellation is not going to help my friend get better. If you want to stay here dwell on 'what ifs' then go ahead, but personally, I thought you were less of a dweller and more…" she tilted her head, "more 'get up and get on with it'. So do yourself a favour, Booth. Go be with her."

He wanted to tell the forensic artist to fuck off and mind her own business. It was tempting. The words formed on his lips and dissolved when he remembered why Angela was there; she was a good, kind woman. And it was her friend whose life lay in the balance. It must have hurt her, too.

"Okay," he said. "Go do your thing." Booth gestured to the stairs, to the laboratory below where Jack Hodgins paced the floor, glancing at his watch with distain. Everyone felt the effects of Brennan's condition. Zach had spluttered rapid-fire scientific jargon in response to the news, and it was his way to dealing with the issue. Booth had ignored his own over-wrought nerves and his need to strangle the damn assistant.

"We'll talk later," Angela said, turning on her heel and descending the steps. After a few seconds Hodgins exclaimed his delight at her arrival, and Booth sighed, relieved to be alone yet so very… lonely.

Scrubbing his face with his hands, he checked his watch. Four eighteen. No one had called. No news. But, when it came to gun-shots, he considered no news to be good news. She wasn't dead.

Outside it had begun to rain, and the autumn afternoon ebbed close to early evening. The clouds darkened as the sun shrank away and the grey gloominess took hold. It reflected his mood so well.

Taking a steadying breath, Booth strode down the stairs, along the lab, beneath the atrium and out the front doors, listening as the rainfall cascaded in heavy droplets off the building and unto the ground. The sound was almost soothing.

A steady, almost predictable rhythm. He listened to it for a long few minutes, realising that he was stalling. Inevitably he'd have to see her, needle marks and plastic tubes, oxygen and heart monitors but, if he didn't, and something happened, he'd never forgive his inability to face the hardness of life.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Dr Hamilton was a small, unassuming man with wire-frame glasses and a disarming smile. His firm handshake put Booth at ease, and his confident stride reassured him that the aging doctor knew what he was doing.

"She's out of surgery now," he said, a clipboard tucked under his arm. "And she's stable. We'll know more when her anaesthetic wears off. Plus she's still sleeping off the effects of the drugs…" Booth nodded, following the doctor along the corridor, until he stopped at a blue door at the end of the hallway. "Would you like to see her?" Booth blinked, caught unprepared for the question.

Did he want to see her? A resonant 'yes' followed by a bellowing 'no' echoed through his brain like a mantra. He smiled tightly and dipped his head, a response that prompted the doctor to swing the door open. The room beyond smelt like disinfectant. The blankets covered her slight frame, all the way to her throat. Her arm was bandaged, wrapped in tight white gauze and her shoulder showed a tiny blood stain.

"Most of the damage was concentrated around her abdomen. Her leg will require physiotherapy, which is understandable, as the muscle was damaged when the bullet impacted. Her arm and her shoulder will heal fine… and…" he seemed to hesitate a little. "We'll discuss her condition more when Dr Brennan is awake. I'll leave you alone, okay?" Booth nodded mutely, resting awkwardly in the arm chair next to her bed.

The slight rise and fall of her chest reminded him that she was still alive. That, by the grace of God, he hadn't lost her. The relief was paramount, but still, shoved aside by the overwhelming sense of fear and guilt that he felt.

He reached out, touching her cheek, noting that she felt cold. She didn't respond to his touch. She _always_ responded to his touch, dammit! Where was she? What place inside her mind had she retreated to in the medically induced coma? Did her memories play the scene over and over again? Or did she dream of nothing at all?

He dropped his head, resting his own cheek against her pillow, listening to the gentle 'whoosh' of the breathing apparatus and the constant _beep, beep, beep_ of the heart monitor as her body continued to pump blood around her arteries. He wasn't sure how long he lay there, listening to her breathe, or even when he fell asleep, but there was no discernable moment between his unconscious state and when he was been shaken into wakefulness by a persistent hand on his shoulder.

He jolted, eyes wide. On the bed, her luminous blue eyes watched him, torn between pain and amusement. His startled expression changed to joy in an instant.

"Bones…" he sighed, reaching for her hand. She smiled tightly through her pain, just enough to reassure him. His heart continued to thud. "You're alright…" She tried to shrug, and winced.

"Aside from the aches all over my body… that bastard made sure he hit!" The chuckle she tried to force forward died on her lips, sounding more like a painful grunt. "Did the doctor say…?" She left her question unspoken. Booth's fingers tightened around hers.

"He said you'll be okay." He nodded, as if trying to reassure himself. He opened his mouth to speak again, but the words died on his lips as he door breezed open and Dr Hamilton, a lot less alert after so many hours of work, stepped in, removing a pen from his pocket and detaching the board from the bottom of her bed.

"Temperance!" He said, smiling. "How are you feeling?" Brennan tried to smile again – the expression resembled a wince. "I can imagine… that bad, huh? Well, the good news is there's no lasting damage done to your internal organs after the bullet hit. There was a lot of bleeding, but, once we got you into theatre it was quickly rectified." Brennan shifted, her breathing hitched a little.

"There's something else…" she said, gauging the doctor's cagey expression and the darkened despair in his eyes. "The good news… what's…" Brennan swallowed. "What else, Dr?" Booth stiffened, swinging his gaze between the two, his spine stiff.

"Dr Brennan…" Hamilton began, dropping his gaze to the floor. After a brief mental preparation, he sighed. "I am legally bound to tell you this, although I personally would rather you didn't know. When you were in surgery, we found that, while the bullets were removed without incident from your arm, thigh and shoulder, your abdomen revealed that…" his breath shuddered, "you were approximately seven weeks pregnant and… I'm sorry…" he lifted his shoulders in his best 'aw shucks' shrug, and tried to smile. He failed.

Brennan didn't speak, but in that instant, her eyes looked dead. "And what…?"

"Bones… don't…" Booth said, his stomach knotted.

When the doctor left them alone, Brennan didn't say anything. She retreated into herself, staring fixedly at the door. Booth stood, pushing his chair away and willing his heart to calm. It didn't matter. How could it matter? Neither of them had planned on children and neither of them had known of her pregnancy so…

_Pregnancy_… Brennan had been pregnant. Neither of them had known. Neither of them had predicted…

Turning to the window, he pressed his face against the glass, watching the darkened night as it passed by.

_Autumn_, he thought_, a month that prepares for… death_.

Without warning, his shoulders convulsed and he sobbed.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Okay folks, I am really sorry. It's late and I haven't proof read this at all, so apologies for any stupid mistakes. I also apologise for the sad subject matter. Don't hate me – I wanted to see if I had the ability to write angst well. Let me know.


	14. Emotional Detachment

**Title: **This if Life

**Rating**: I'd say probably a T.

**Disclaimer: **These characters belong to Fox.

**A/N: **Thanks for all the reviews. No one has expressed dislike, exactly, at my previous chapter, but today, it is extraordinarily sunny in Belfast and I'm in a mood for not caring! So, I'm going to continue to write along this line :D

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To say that Temperance Brennan withdrew into herself would have been a vast understatement.

When the hospital released her, she didn't express joy. She didn't mutter 'thank God' or race from the sterile building as fast as she could. Instead, she packed her bag slowly with one hand, her eyes lost in a far away place that he'd come to recognise as her sadness.

She spoke only when she was spoken to and even then her comments were brief, as though she wanted to be silent. Her behaviour worried him. She wouldn't open her thoughts to him, and their miscarried baby was mentioned only once; the day after Dr Hamilton dropped his bombshell, Brennan had commented at the irony.

"I never wanted a child. I never knew I was _having_ a child and now that I know… it feels like someone's shot me with more bullets, Booth. And as each moments goes by, it feels like those bullets keep coming."

He hadn't known what to say. Her hand stiffened beneath his when he took it, and since that moment, she hadn't mentioned the baby, nor had she allowed him to touch her. It wasn't exactly as if she expressed her desire for him not to touch her, but when he did, she shied away, her spine stiffening and her eyes taking on a hardened emotion.

Within days of her release from hospital, she propelled herself into her work, staying at the Jeffersonian until eleven thirty, sometimes midnight and coming straight to bed when she got home. Booth waited until she was asleep, turning to study the angular features of her face, to gauge how she was coping – because sleep was the only time during the course of the day that Brennan didn't maintain the façade that everything was 'just fine'.

Sometimes, when he pretended to be asleep, she would cry. Soft, momentary sobs that lasted a few seconds until she regained a steely grip on her wayward emotions. It was those times that his own heart really broke.

She'd been pregnant.

"Booth, man!" Hodgins clapped his shoulder, jolting him to the present, where they all stood around a medical gurney. "Reign it in dude, we haven't got all day whilst you dance around with fairies." Angela caught his eye, and he knew that she was all too aware of his thoughts. Brennan's friend, who'd somehow become his friend, had kept a silent watch over his behaviour and it offered a small amount of comfort to know that someone understood how empty he felt, too.

"I'm with you," Booth said, turning to Jack. "Particulates, evidence of methane, blah, blah, blah…" Hodgins' eyes narrowed, his thumb clicking his pen with irritation.

"There's no blah, blah," he said. "In fact, it's very _not_ blah, blah." Angela chuckled, slipping her pencil into her lab coat.

"Let me assure you, Jack, it's _very_ blah."

"I'm in agreement," Zach said, tilting the skull to the light. Brennan sighed.

"Not today, please?" Her blue eyes flashed her impatience, and she pulled her gloves off. "We've work to do and right now it's wasted." No one spoke. Tension hung thick in the surrounding air and, while everyone shifted awkwardly, Brennan turned, oblivious. Or perhaps she wasn't oblivious so much as she didn't care. Her eyes had taken on the dead look again.

Angela glanced from Booth to Brennan and back again, eventually shrugging. "Sweetie?"

"What is it, Angela?" Brennan asked, her tone brisk. Booth dropped his eyes to the gurney again, focusing on the discoloured bones, the skinless frame. He sensed Angela wanted to comment on her best-friend's irate state, but instead, she turned her canvas.

"I'm going to start the recon now, okay?" Brennan shrugged.

"Fine. I'll be in my office if anyone needs me." When she left, the atmosphere seemed to disperse and Zach breathed a sigh of relief, his eyes wide as they followed Brennan's stiff movements to her office. Booth felt his emotions surge. How could she withdraw so easily? How could she turn her back on their mutual grief?

Turning, he followed her, not bothering to knock when he reached her office door. She sat at her desk, hands spread over the papers. She stared at the wood, looking startled – as though she'd only just realised she was sitting there and she was quite unsure as to why. "Bones…?"

"I sense you're going to do your psychology lesson. Your tone speaks volumes." He stepped further into her office, easing the door shut. It was now that she looked at him, her eyes still wide. She looked dazed, almost as if she were intoxicated.

"No psychology, Bones. I'm not your shrink. I'm…" he frowned. "I don't really know what I am. I haven't been playing any definitive role in your life, recently." She blanched a little, throwing her head back. Her startled gaze disappeared when she closed her eyes.

"I don't want to talk about it, Booth…" she said.

"About what?" He asked, pressing his palms to her desk, leaning imposingly towards her. When she opened her eyes she was startled to find him inches from her face.

"The baby…" she whispered, her voice choked. "I don't want to talk about the baby." Booth sighed, dropping his head. His shoulders felt heavy – so many hours spent contemplating their relationship and whether they'd ever find themselves back to where they were.

"What do you want, Bones?" He asked, watching as her eyes darkened with unshed tears and the way her lips seemed to tremble a little.

"I've been asked to go to Ireland," she said. "To work on a mass grave and… I think I'm going to go. I think…" she paused. "I know it's best for me." He felt as though someone has punched him in the gut, and his expression obviously conveyed this.

"You're leaving?"

"Only for a couple of months. I'll be back… I need to work, Booth." He stepped back, crossing his arms, his stomach churning. "Don't take it personally…"

"You're being extremely selfish, Brennan," he said, his eyes bright with fury. "You'd walk out on me rather than face your emotions. It's cowardly." She pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head.

"It's my way-"

"Fine. I get it. You go… relax with leprechauns and I'll…" he felt his heart swell, almost until he was engulfed by his sadness. "Good luck, Bones." As he left, he half expected her to call him, but she did not. He heard merely the beginning of a strangled sob and then… nothing.

Angela turned to look as he stormed through the Jeffersonian, making eye contact with no one. When she called his name, he shook his head. "Not now, Angela," he said, the doors hissing open as he stepped into the tangy afternoon air. His lungs tightened and he tried to breathe.

He loved her. He loved her more than he'd loved any woman, and now, just like that, she…

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Brennan did leave. Half way through October, flew from Dulles to New York and from there she caught a plane to Ireland and her goodbye consisted of an answering machine message promising him that, when she returned, they'd talk.

"I need to get my head together," she'd said. "I miss you, Booth. I sound as though I am… heartless and unkind and I'm not. But… it hurts, you know?"

He did know. He knew that it hurt every time he thought of her impromptu decision and every time he thought of the baby they could've had. But, work filled the majority of his day and, on the day she left he was wrapped up in a case.

Three days later, when he was finally realising that Brennan was gone, Angela dropped by his apartment, bearing gifts.

"Vodka? Really, Ange… it's a weekday.."

"Every day is vodka day. You pour." He did, and the alcohol numbed his throat and his pain. Angela winced. "Good stuff… I was going to bring whiskey but, I'd a bad experience with that recently. How you coping?" Booth shrugged, pouring another.

"I'm fine. I'm… yeah… fine."

It wasn't exactly a lie. He _was_ fine, in a half-hearted way. He blocked out all thoughts of Brennan by ignoring the memories and telling himself that her grief would have driven her slowly insane, if she hadn't left.

"She called me this morning," Angela disclosed. "She misses you like hell."

"Yeah… I know…" Booth knocked the entire shot back, breathing in. "I miss her too." Angela nodded, dropping a Continental ticket unto the table.

"I didn't come here for an afternoon drink, Booth. I came to tell you to go. What harm can it do, right?" Booth fingered the ticket, his head spinning. It seemed too romantic. Grand romantic gestures rarely worked in real life. It was an unfortunate truth of life. He pushed it away.

"It could drive her away further," he said. "I'll wait on her." He'd have waited for eternity simply because he doubted he'd get over her. "She's dealing with the miscarriage in a way she knows how, and that's to ignore it. I can't ignore it, Angela. So, I deal with it my way and she deals with it hers…" He toyed with the idea of refilling his glass.

"You need to get off home turf. She's no where to go, in Ireland. I hear it's like… empty…" Angela said. "Like… seriously…" Booth sighed, dropping his head to the counter. "No better place to find yourself."

It was these words that made him think – and fundamentally realise that Brennan was worth more than his passive behaviour.

It was essentially Angela's seemingly inert statement that made him go after her.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

People like Ireland. I live here, so it's not really anything amazing to me, anymore. But the scenery is fantastic and in the country there's nothing. Maybe it's a good place for Booth and Brennan to go…

I also think Brennan would be the type to ignore her feelings and submerse herself in work.


	15. Sought Out

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of these characters. Except the Irish ones. They'll all be mine.

**Rating: **This one is rated T. But your beloved M rated chapters shall return.

**A/N: **I really like writing angst. I hope you all like reading it. I'd like to give another big shout out to BonesDBchippie, because, for anyone who is liking this story, it wouldn't be going anywhere if it weren't for her encouragement!

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

He was out of his comfort zone and he did not know where he was going.

The little roads, made of compact dirt and not tarmac, winded dangerously along sloping cliffs. He drove slowly having been caught unawares by two unexpected cars, already. Although here, people didn't seem to get angry at the inconvenience, in fact, strangers waved at him and smiled.

Brennan had been given a little cottage high on the north coast of Donegal. The little white-washed building, with grey slate tiles and flowery hanging baskets made him think of contentment. The sharp October wind, however, made him feel cold inside and out.

She met him on the stony path, her arms folded, her cheeks rosy from the wind. He'd smiled at her attire; heavy jeans and a thick wool sweater. She'd pulled her hair into a tight knot at the nape of her neck, and her eyes were a little less dead than when he'd last seen her.

Brennan wrapped her arms around him, but her hug was perfunctory at best, almost awkward. "Hi," she said, stepping back.

"Hi," he replied, glancing behind her to the old-fashioned cottage with it's billowing chimney. "This is nice…" The air smelt of burnt peat and salt. Beyond the little white building, the ocean roared. "We must be close to the beach…" Booth commented, and Brennan nodded.

"It's two minutes that way," she replied, gesturing over her shoulder. "It's too cold, though. How… how are you?" He met her gaze, saw how there wasn't so much helpless sadness. There was a glimmer of azure that had crept back into the depthless sapphire.

"I'd like some coffee…" He said, feeling the Atlantic winds bite through his clothes. "Then maybe you could tell me about what you've been doing here?" Brennan nodded compliantly, turning and moving towards the cottage. "Nice digs, by the way. Jeffersonian paying for this?" Booth asked, and Brennan chuckled.

"Yeah, and it's only eighty Euros a week. I like it. I've decided on a retirement home." She eased the front door open and the smell of bread, honey and peat wafted delicately through the air. Booth laughed.

"As if you'll ever retire," he said, taking in the dark wood décor, the sofa, the high chest of drawers and the lamp that burned in the corner of the room, illuminating the dull afternoon. Brennan straightened a stack of magazines, thrusting her hands into her jeans.

"Do you doubt it?" He heard the sobriety in her tone, and it startled him. "Life's too short." There was a deep honesty in her statement, and, when she saw the questions forming in his eyes, she quickly turned away. "Coffee? Lucky for you, I had some made." He smelt it now, mixed with the burning peat in the open fire.

As she poured them a cup each, stirring cream into his, Booth stepped around the little living room, pausing to admire the oil paintings that hung on the two gable walls. The first, of a green mountain, which, in his opinion was pretty much all there was to Ireland, looked dazzling in its vast array of emerald colours and the second, a tempestuous print of the ocean battering against the grey cliff made him think of the salty air he could smell outside the door.

Behind him, the fire crackled and he turned, thankful at the heat which wafted across the cottage, warming his chilled flesh. Brennan stepped into the room, passing him a cup of pungent, steaming caffeine which immediately eased the tension from his shoulders.

"The roads here are a nightmare," he commented, sinking into the cushiony sofa. Brennan hummed in response, taking residence in the chair opposite. Her shoes had been removed and she wore only her socks. "So, how has the work been? Cold, I imagine." Brennan smiled, bringing her cup to her lips.

"I work indoors, mostly. It's difficult to identify the bodies," she said. "They're over a hundred years old and dental records mean virtually nothing out here. We're in the sticks, Booth. Researchers have been scouring through article after article of newspapers and missing persons reports and, last week, based on a piece of jewellery found on one of the bodies we can verify that one of the women was a Geraldine Laverty. She…" Brennan sighed. "It's been a fairly long week, actually."

Angela had carefully planned his trip for one week and three days after her departure because, apparently, booking too soon would seem like he was crowding her. He hated to admit that Angela was right, but apparently she was. Brennan seemed fresher, less weary. But her sadness still wreaked from every pore in her body.

"How did the woman die?" Booth asked, absorbing the strength offered to him by the coffee. Brennan did the same.

"She was stabbed. We don't exactly what happened to the people of the village. The mass grave was unearthed when a local property developer decided to build a three phase apartment complex, much to the annoyance of the locals." Booth ran his eyes over the cottage.

"I can see why people want to preserve the seclusion. It's very rural." Brennan turned her eyes to the fire, watching the curling flames in the grate for a long few moments. "So, Bones, how _have_ you been?" Her eyes flickered, her lips thinning.

"Like… I've been existing, Booth. That's pretty much it. Every time my arm aches or I get a pain in my thigh, I think about how I have ditched my physiotherapy and then it's an automatic leap to…" she swallowed. "I'm alright with _saying_ it now, maybe because I've spent a week on my own, repeating it over and over again."

Booth drained his cup, setting the empty mug on the coffee table. "Saying what, Bones?"

"I lost my baby…"

"_Our_," Booth corrected, his voice harsher than he'd have liked. "It was ours, Bones. And, in case you're wondering, I am okay, too." Her eyes flashed, a mixture of hurt and anger and then… her features softened, and she blinked into her coffee cup, sighing deeply.

"I was going to ask you that, actually," she said quietly. Booth inhaled sharply, cursing his own insensitivity. Perhaps as the days progressed his anger built and, when this woman, the woman who was supposed to travel the journey of despair with him, seemed so intent on going it alone, he was no longer able to suppress it.

"Well, to be honest, I think about it quite a lot, Bones. I imagine how, if things had been different would we be celebrating or would you have, had you found out about your pregnancy, pushed me away anyway? Are we destined to be in this hellish place, Brennan?" The azure disappeared again, and she looked crushed.

"That's unfair, Booth," she said, dropping her eyes to the floor. The only sound, for the longest moment, was the flickering flames and the wind as it howled down the chimney. "I have been overwhelmed by my grief. I… it was unexpected and the ferociousness at which it attacked my emotions surprised me. I was too absorbed in my own feelings to worry about yours. That _is_ selfish, but it's the truth." Booth nodded, once, his heart suddenly heavy.

"And Ireland," he said, clearing his throat. "Has it helped you come to terms…?" Brennan looked at him now, her gaze steady, determined, her jaw firm and tight.

"It's helped. I feel pain – emotional pain, but I want to try…" she halted briefly, "I would like to try to find my strength, again." The thought of Brennan, emotionally weak, was almost unthinkable. But, since the shooting, she'd been somewhat absent. Her mind had been focused only on her own heartache. As she looked at Booth now, she felt something different. She felt sorrow for the pain endured by the man she loved so desperately.

"Okay," he said at last. "If you'd let me, I'd like to help you." For the first time in what felt like a life-time, she smiled. The light caught her eyes, and the expression he saw there tugged at his own emotions.

"I am… _so_ glad I found you, Booth." He chuckled, raking slightly unsteady fingers through his hair, his grin disarming and amused.

"All these thousands of miles, having to endure a flight with only peanuts and a coke and driving through insanely dangerous roads, I'd say that _I_ found _you_, Bones." Her laugh was a welcome surprise to the sombre mood that had plagued them for far too long.

Brennan stood, shifting across the real-wood floor, and sat next to him on the sofa. Their bodies were still, riddled with an awkwardness. After a steadying breath, she reached her hand across the small space between them, and took his fingers in hers. He brushed her knuckles with his thumb.

"We'll get through this, Temperance," he said.

And for the first time in weeks, she actually believed they might.

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Fluff will come back again – but for now, I so enjoy this angle. And besides, I think I'll like writing about their relationship growing. Please review, you all know how happy reviews make me.


	16. Personal Solace

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Rating: **T.

**A/N: **Please let me know what you think.

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He slept in the bed next to her, but they didn't touch. She turned her back, flicking the lamp off and plunging them into darkness. There was no streetlamps here, and the road beyond the cottage was strangely quiet. He strained to hear anything except the constant whoosh of the waves against the surf.

Earlier, when she'd been pouring over a journal, he'd peaked out the kitchen window, into the fading light, and saw the strip of the golden beach, long and deserted, and the steel-grey ocean, slated like blades against the darkening sky. He'd listened to the sound of the sea then, and decided Brennan was right to love the place so much.

An afternoon was quiet solace was enough to welcome retirement. But as he lay on his back, staring at the shadow-etched ceiling, struggling to hear something, _anything_, he thought it was a lonely existence. He wished there was a rogue siren, or someone shouting drunkenly.

If there were signs of life, perhaps he wouldn't have felt as though he'd lapsed into a world where only he and Brennan existed. At that moment, he'd have given anything to be sitting in Wong Fu's, beer in hand, pouring his problems out to Sid.

But there was no one. And somehow, he thought that was Brennan's plan when she'd agreed to do the work. The peace gave her time to think, to contemplate her future. Personally, Booth didn't deal with silence well. In fact, it was too damn quiet to sleep.

"Bones?" He nudged her, and she jerked.

"Hmm?"

"Do you mind if I turn the TV on?" She sighed, burrowing her face into the pillow. When she surfaced for breath, she spoke.

"Keep it low, Booth," she said before tugging the blanket over her shoulder and lapsing into the same painstaking silence as before. He reached for the remote and flicked the television on, bathing the room in an iridescent, yet welcome, bluish glow.

The channel showed a middle-aged woman speaking rapid Gaelic, and, Booth watched her seemingly meaningless ramblings for a long moment, before channel to a different news broadcast. This one was English, featuring a harsher brogue of English.

"…and the conference at the Waterfront Hall in Belfast will continue on until next Thursday, being the second biggest tourist input into the city this year, next to the World Irish Dancing Competition…"

The news changed to an English sitcom, the humour of which Booth did not really understand, but the canned laughter told him it was, in it's region, hilarious. Despite not understanding the 'in jokes', the sound of the actor's voice eased the tension of being alone, until he felt sleepy enough to close his eyes.

When he woke, the television was off, and the luminous sunlight beamed through the window, into his eyes. He winced, throwing his arm across his face. By the doorway, he heard the familiar chuckle that reminded him of mornings spent at Brennan's home. He smelt coffee, too.

"Time to get up. I'll be leaving soon." He turned his head, catching sight of her in a different pair of jeans and an olive coloured shirt. Her hair was damp, hanging in neatly combed strands along her cheeks.

"Leaving?" He asked, groggily.

"Work. Seamus O'Rourke is picking me up in fifteen minutes." Booth frowned, pushing himself into a seated position, his eyes hurting at the intense bright light.

"Who is Seamus O'Rourke?" Brennan stepped into the bedroom now, fixing a heavy, red beaded necklace with a large bronze medallion around her neck before pulling a jacket over her arms.

"He's a doctor here. The only one for miles, actually. He's the closest thing in the way of an assistant." Booth swung his legs over the edge of the bed, stretching, easing all the kinks in his muscles away.

"I bet you miss Zach, huh?" He peered out the window, catching sight of the first car he'd seen since yesterday, as it rounded the bend as out of sight. "When will you be back?" Brennan shrugged, pulling her damp hair into a knot at the nape of her neck.

"After dinner, probably. Oh, there's this great little restaurant, but you'll have to drive into town. It's called Neil's and its… it's more a pub, really. Soaked in ancient Irish history, you'd like it." Booth half shrugged, brushing past her into the hallway that led to the kitchen.

"Is it walking distance?" He called over his shoulder.

"Depends on how far you want to walk," Brennan reasoned, and outside a horn honked. "Damn, he's early. Look, I'll see you later. Maybe we can have a drink later, yeah?" She surprised him, reaching up and dropping a quick, yet searing kiss to his unshaven cheek. Swinging the door open she paused at the threshold, tossing a glance over her shoulder. "Booth?" He found a mug in the cupboard and poured himself a coffee.

"Yeah?" He called back, opening the refrigerator in search of milk.

"I love you, okay?" His spine froze, his mind quite unprepared for the second show of affection in thirty seconds. When he opened his mouth to reply, the door had eased shut and her footsteps on the gravel path outside were audible. It was a small, yet somehow paramount leap.

Drinking his coffee, Booth showered and got dressed, pulling a jacket over his sweater and wrapping a navy wool scarf around his neck. The beach, chilly as it was, had been beckoning him since he'd arrived. With nothing to do until Brennan returned, he figured the easiest way to kill time, was to walk.

The rear of the cottage led to a narrow, sloping pathway with rickety wooden steps that his feet fell upon with trepidation. When he felt the fairly stable sand beneath his shoes, he paused to inhale the vibrant salty air, the Atlantic wind whipping at his cheeks, pulling his scarf in an upward bid for freedom.

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he scanned the horizon, watching a blue and white fishing boat brave the tempest, thrashed wildly atop the thunderous white waves. Blinking, he wondered how those fishermen battled the elements every day, and still managed to return home with a healthy amount of salmon.

He walked slowly to the edge of the shore, bending to touch the frigidly cold waters of the ocean. Releasing a husky 'brrr' into the wind, he straightened, turning to examine the lighthouse that stood like a pinnacle, stretched high into the sky, at the end of a rocky peninsula.

Atop the green hills, a few other houses sat, secluded and pretty. In the light of day, the seclusion didn't seem so bad. It was at night, when the howling ocean was the only thing that made a sound. _That_ was when he found the rural life a difficult choice.

The ocean spray against his face brought him to reality, and his mind flittered to Brennan's unexpected declaration of love, so soon after her frosty bedtime dismissal of him.

When the chill became too much, Booth ascended the slope to the cottage again, lighting the peat within the old stone fireplace before making himself his second cup of coffee. As soon as his skin felt warm again, he made a call to DC, waiting patiently until Angela Montenegro answered.

"Hey, how's the Emerald Isle, then?" Was her immediate greeting. He smiled. Angela might have officially been Brennan's friend, but she'd been invaluable recently.

"It's… green. And cold," he replied, casting his eyes to the rolling clouds as they tumbled over the hills.

"Not impressed, then?" Angela asked, sounding almost disappointed.

"It's surprisingly lovely, actually. In a very desolate, ancient kind of way. I feel like I'm in another century. But, I'm phoning to talk about Brennan. She's feeling a little better. We're in a different place." The flames crackled, and a surge of welcome heat blasted around the small, cosy room.

"Well that's wonderful, sweetie. Has she mentioned, you know, the baby?" Booth thought about 'the baby', the reason for their dilemma. He's child had been growing within Temperance, and it seemed like the most divine thing he could ever have imagined. Life, he realised, could be so coldly cruel.

"She mentioned it, but we haven't talked much. We're trying to… find a happy medium for our emotions, I think." Angela's smile was almost audible.

"Happy medium, huh? Where is she now?" Booth could see her, sifting through bones and matching them into neat, immaculate skeletons. Doing her job. Focusing on anything besides their problems.

"She's working," he said.

"Oh. Well, you need to sort things out soon. They can't linger on for too long, Booth." He nodded, not speaking. Of course it made sense. If they didn't work through the creases in their life, their relationship would wrinkle further until it was unrecognisable as the happiness they'd once shared. "How long do you give it, Booth?" Angela asked. He turned his eyes back to the fire again, watching the brilliant flames, violent and orange, as they licked the chimney.

"I have three weeks, maximum. Then I have to get home." Cullen had been pissed enough at him taking time during such a major case. Personal time, it seemed, was for times convenient to everyone. It had been after relating their recent troubles to his boss that he'd finally relented.

'_Three weeks, Booth. I don't care if you have accrued seven weeks off. If it were anyone else, I'd stamp a big 'disapproved' on this request.' _He'd been so grateful for Cullen for his momentary lapse of kindness. He needed to get his ass in gear, and ensure things were fine before he left.

"I'll sort it out, Angela," he promised, more to himself than to the woman on the other side of the world.

As they said their goodbyes, he prayed for the millionth time that somehow, by the grace of God, they'd find their way back into each others arms. And hearts.

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The coast of Donegal is fucking freezing. In summer is brilliant, and it's so warm. It's picturesque all the time. It's also extremely rural. Hope you liked this chapter.

Review!

P.S.: I apologise for mistakes. Once again, it's late and I need sleepies!


	17. Chasms Wide

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **I don't own these characters, I'm afraid.

**Rating: **This one is rated T. But for anyone who' interested, I promise I'll be going back to M, soon.

**A/N: **Well, I was totally unprepared for the response to my last chapter! It seems people like stories about Ireland, too! Yay for me! I hope everyone continues to enjoy the angst here, because as one of my reviews said, a miscarriage isn't something that people immediately get over. But, I am also a true-romantic, so, for those of you who have been begging me for a happy ending, beg no more, I promise you a fluffy conclusion!

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"Hello?" Her voice came through the haziness of his afternoon sleep, rousing him back to wakefulness. The fire by the sofa had burned to orange embers, casting a soft glow against the walls. He stretched, murmuring her name like a sweet prayer. His eyes fell shut. Was it evening already? "Booth?" He felt her fingers as they stroked through his hair, her thumb brushing over his tremble. His eyes fluttered open again.

"What time is it?" He asked, his voice husky with sleep. Above him, she smiled, looking like, in his clichéd opinion, an angel. Her cheeks were rosy again, whipped into a pinkish frenzy by the howling wind. A few strands of silken, cinnamon hair had escaped their bindings and hung, dishevelled, around her cheeks. And she was smiling. Oh Lord, Temperance was smiling.

"It's four thirty," she said, crouching now, her fingers still doing the torturous little dance over his scalp. "Seamus told me to come home. We made progress today." Booth turned his cheek into her hand, watching her as she stroked the lines of his face, now. "We found something quite peculiar. Actually, I'm so… excited?" Her eyes were giddy, now. He watched the upward curve of her lips, and wished it had been _him_ that had brought such delight back into those desolate irises. He supposed her work would always be the one thing that would do it.

"What did you find?" He asked, trying to share her enthusiasm. Trying to ensure that sparkle stayed a little while longer.

"Remains of what… seem to be… goodness, I feel like a kid at Christmas… I think we've stumbled upon a genuine Celtic warrior!" For Booth her words were an anti-climax, because he didn't know anything about warriors, and he didn't have much interest in Celtic ones. But she was grinning. Grinning like the kid she thought she was, and, despite his lack of inner enthusiasm, he grinned back.

"Wow, that's amazing, Bones." She nodded, standing.

"I know! I'm shipping the remains to DC tomorrow… if I can find a damn courier in this… is this a town?" Her brow lowered to a frown as she unclipped her necklace, dropping it to the coffee table. "Oh… what a find. Hundreds of years old, Booth. With parts of his weaponry still in tact…" She shifted to the kitchen, where he heard the recognisable sound of the kettle as she flicked the switch.

"What an extraordinary find," he said, sounding half hearted, even to himself. Booth had trouble convincing himself that he was actually joyous about how, when Brennan finally looked something approaching happy again, it would be thanks to a Celtic warrior who'd been buried for hundreds of god damn years!

Brennan seemed lost in her own thoughts, resting against the door frame, arms crossed over her chest. Booth rubbed his eyes, swinging his legs over the edge of the sofa before standing. "Are you okay?" Brennan asked, following him as he shifted across the room, taking the poker into his hand and tossing the glowing embers, his brows drawn in deep contemplation. After a long few moments, when the peat caught alight again, he turned.

"I'm fine," he said, trying to convince himself. "Are we going to have a drink at this pub of yours, then?" Brennan smiled, stepping forward, her arms snaking around his waist, her face tilted upwards. She looked lovely, so close to him, wrapped in his embrace. Yet, there was a chasm of emotion that stood between their bodies.

"Tonight is fiddle night," she said, her nose pressed to his sweater, inhaling him.

"Fiddle night? Dare I ask?" Her chuckle was muffled against his chest, and he relished their proximity for a long moment. He wanted, not to speak, but to remain silently cocooned in her delicious scent. Even the distinctly chemical whiff off her clothes didn't deter him. Not today.

"There is a band that plays fiddles and spoons or something." She leaned back, grinning. "Might be fun…?"

"Spoons?" Booth felt his eyebrows lift in amusement, as he tried to imagine, despite having seen it before, how anyone could make decent music with spoons. It never failed to amaze him. "Do they sell Guinness?" He asked, allowing himself to forget Brennan's inability to let him make her happy.

"Booth," she said, patiently. "We are in Ireland. They _produce_ Guinness in Ireland." He chuckled. "I imagine you'd be able to buy some, yes." He snagged his jacket off the back of the sofa.

"We've run out of fuel. Where can I get some?" Brennan jerked her thumb towards the rear of the cottage, informing him that there was a pile of peat, covered with tarpaulin at the back. He eased the front door shut, and listened for a moment, to the sounds of her moving about inside. He'd have given his life to ensure the happiness she felt at that moment never disappeared again. Unfortunately the adrenaline of finding the warrior would only last until the case was over and the remains were confirmed. Then, it was inevitable, she'd think about the baby again.

Booth felt rain in the air, a damp sort of mist clung to the bracken, seeping through the valleys and over the mountains. He'd read somewhere that Ireland was allegedly one of the most haunted countries in the world. Looking out, at how everything looked so… ancient and preserved, he could easily have believed it.

Banshees and wandering ghosts seemed possible, here, in the middle of nowhere. He could picture lost souls, coming over the green hills, through the dried shrubbery, and he imagined himself as a lost soul, too. It was in moments of solidarity, like now, that he realised how much Brennan's miscarriage had effected him. He felt an emptiness, at the bottom of his stomach. And inside his heart. There was an aura of sobriety that followed him like a cloud, permeating his willpower and restraint and filling him with an anger that seemed to overwhelm his senses.

His fingers curled into fists and he kicked the decorative tree-stump at stood by the path. It tipped, sending a flower basket unto it's side, soil pouring unto the grass and autumn flowers fell out, broken. A sob caught in his throat, lost in the wind.

Booth inhaled sharply, willing himself to reign his emotions in. They surged forth, clouding his eyes and his judgement. How had God forsaken them, so? Hadn't they both suffered enough heartache? Didn't they deserve something in the way of happiness? Didn't he deserve to feel complete, too? With Parker's mother, life had been anything except happy, and his son was only allowed into a fractionally small part of his life. With Temperance… it could have been so different. They shared mutual love that was, thanks to the cruellest twist of fate, compromised.

Sinking to his knees, he tried to replant the flowers, willing the broken petals to be right again. Just as he willed his own life to be right. It didn't work. In either context. Despite patting the soil back into the basket and fixing the tree-stump, the red and yellow flowers still looked dead; a perfect reflection of his soul.

Swiping angrily at the tears which had fell unto his cheeks, he sucked another breath, filled with a salty aroma, into his lungs. Tonight, he'd allow Brennan her happiness. Tonight, he'd maintain the pretence that their spirit hadn't been crushed. If fiddles and spoons allowed her the privilege of forgetting their grief, he knew it could only be a good thing.

Ensuring that the basket was stable, he brushed the dirt off on his jeans and stood, running his tongue across his dried lips. It was cold. An autumn breeze blew over the rolling hills, down to the little garden, cutting him to his bones. The ocean sounded rougher, now, angry and unleashed.

He rounded the cottage to the back, where he saw the rickety path to the beach, again, and a peat blocks piled high against the white wall. Beyond the fence, he watched the waves for a long few moments. The fishing boat had long since gone, and the waters looked starkly barren. Even the bravest fisherman wouldn't have chanced a night on these waters.

Collecting two blocks into his arms, Booth thought about how Ireland had acquired the accompanying statement 'forty shades of green'. He thought it was inaccurate. There were probably hundreds more. From where he stood, overlooking the ocean, framed by hills and the valleys beyond, his eyes could easily have counted forty, all woven together like a patchwork blanket.

Inside, he heard the shower, and saw the billowing steam as it leaked out the half open bathroom door. Wondering if he should steal a glimpse of her naked body – the body that he missed so much, Booth smiled. The woman behind the door had the ability to turn him to steel. She had, probably since the moment they'd met.

Crouching, he dropped the peat into the fireplace, finding a box of matches and striking a flame to help coax the fire back to life. His hands, numbed from the weather outside, welcomed the deep heat. He shifted, sitting on the rug and letting the warmth wash over him.

"You're filthy," Brennan said from the doorway behind him. Booth glanced down at his dirty jeans, and clicked his tongue.

"Yeah…" he said. "I knocked over the plant basket. Sorry." She wore a robe, her hair twisted inside a cotton towel that had a shamrock emblem on the edge. "Bones… do you remember our trip to Vermont?" When he glanced at her eyes, he saw a twinkle of mischief there. He delighted him to know that, sexually, she wasn't dead, yet. "Do you think… what we had there..." she silenced him, her hand falling over his lips, the twinkle was gone.

"Yes," she said. "We will. Eventually."

Eventually, he knew, could mean a week or a decade. Eventually gave no specific time, and essentially, no reassurance. He opened his mouth to express his disapproval of such vague guarantee, when she shifted, turning her back on him.

"Get ready," she said. "Fiddle night starts at seven, and I'd like us to get some food, first."

Eventually. He repeated the word inwardly. He didn't have 'eventually' he had three weeks. It didn't afford him much time in the 'one day' spectrum, because, if he hadn't brought her back from the brink before he left, he wasn't sure her promise of eventually would ever come.

When he'd showered, Brennan had changed into a different pair of jeans and a black sweater that clung to her soft curves. When she stretched into the cupboard for a glass, he saw the smooth line of her torso, marred only by the almost healed bullet wound that would, beyond a doubt, leave a permanent reminder of the conflict. Her belly however, was not marred by pregnancy.

"Bones?" He buttoned down his shirt, watching her as she dispensed water from the refrigerator into her glass.

"Hmm?" She replied, turning to face him. He dropped his eyes to the slate tiles beneath his feet, awkwardly shifting. "What's wrong?" Brennan asked, draining her glass.

"Did the doctor… did he mention if you'd be alright to… try for another baby?" When he glanced up, she looked as though she'd been stricken. Her eyes were rounded, her lips parted and dry. He heard the sharp intake of breath and noted the small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. "No?" He asked, his heart hammering within his chest. Brennan's brows drew together in a moment of great pain.

"I… Booth… I don't _want_ to try for another baby." His emotions shifted at once, hurt, followed by a tremendous ache settling within his body. He felt as though she'd drew all the oxygen from his lungs and left him unable to unable to breathe. For the longest moment, he felt as though he had stopped breathing altogether.

"But Temper-"

"No, Booth," she said, her tone forceful and no nonsense. "No children. I never wanted any. And I don't relish the pain of losing _another_ one. Don't mention it," she paused, her breath shaky, "ever again."

There was a point where he registered a numbness within his muscles, where he was frozen, and no matter how much he wanted to move, to protest, to make her see reason, he was unable to. His fingers twitched, and his eyes burned at her harsh dismissal of his concerns. She didn't want babies. Why did he assume anything would have changed? Why had he been unable to make the logical leap that, if anything, she'd be further dissuaded by her miscarriage. Oh, how foolish he'd been to _suppose_ even for a fleeting moment, that Temperance would suddenly be warmed by motherhood.

"Okay…" he said, his voice a ragged whisper. "Well…" he didn't know what he was supposed to say or how he ought to have responded. So, instead of launching into a spiel designed to persuade her they'd make perfect parents, he sighed and instead, dropped the subject. "Spoons and fiddles it is, then. I'm almost ready to go." Brennan nodded sharply.

"Good. I'll wait in the car."

As she closed the door, Booth felt as though they'd taken a massive step backward. Suddenly, instead of edging closer to their lost happiness, the chasm had become bigger. And, without warning, she was further from reach than ever before.

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This, can I just tell you, is a longer chapter than I've written in ages! But I can imagine this becoming a very long story. Anyone for a long story?

Ha. Please review!


	18. Maze of Feeling

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **These characters, or at least the two main ones, are not mine.

**Rating: **T.

**A/N: **Angst-galore ahead. If you're opposed to sadness, please, please don't read. I don't want anyone on anti-depressants at the end. Actually, do read, because I want reviews! Review everyone!

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Irish Star was a quartet, comprising of a long raven haired woman who wore a fluttery skirt and a sweater and played the violin, a red-bearded man in a waistcoat and corduroy pants who looked like a farmer and banged an excellent beat on a bodhran drum, an even older man who looked about seventy five, with white whiskers who clacked spoons like an expert on his old knees, and a woman with short, tousled blonde hair who wore a heavy Celtic cross made of silver, who brought sweet, haunting melodies from within her flute.

They were quite a peculiar mix, and, sitting on a rickety mahogany stool, with a half pint of thick Guinness, Brennan was shocked that somehow, they actually worked. Their music was in perfect sync, and the sound wreaked of one hundred percent Ireland.

Occasionally someone would stand, dance a little jig and inevitably give up and return to their stout. Or their Bushmills whiskey. Either way, the attempt was comical, and Brennan found herself grinning more often than not. Next to her, Booth lifted his eyes from the bottomless depths of his black Guinness rarely. His mood was heavy and could not be lifted by the light-hearted dances, and genuine happiness of the villagers.

"Finished with your pint, mate?" The barman asked as Booth drained his glass. "Another?" He nodded, pushing his glass towards the grey haired man, who chuckled. "What's your worries? Maybe somethin' a little stronger? What about a short?" Booth seemed disorientated by the man's bombardment of rapid-fire questions, coupled with his thick accent.

"Umm… just a refill, thanks." The music changed, and the band began a slow, haunting ballad that brought the chatter within the room to a lull. Brennan turned in her chair, watching as the woman with the black hair pulled the bow across the strings of the violin with a practiced elegance. The sound was both lingering and heartbreaking.

She had tried to remain happy, for the sake of herself. She knew within her own heart that she was being abrupt and quite selfish. She'd found it difficult to open up, and when Booth mentioned babies, her heart had taken a dive into the pit of her stomach. She grieved for the child she'd lost almost every minute, and despite maintaining, quite convincingly, she thought, a façade of normality within herself, she was far from healed. The grief… it was far from gone.

The barman replaced her own drink and Booth passed twenty euros across the scored mahogany bar. When she glanced sideways, his eyes were firmly cast into the stout again. "Booth…?" She dropped her hand to his arm, and the tight muscles of his forearm flexed beneath her touch. She was momentarily caught unaware at how she missed his skin against hers. Her mind flashed, dangerously erotic, to images of their naked bodies, writhing in ecstasy. How she missed it.

"It's fine, Bones. Please," he paused, "_please_ just leave it." There was an edginess to his voice that she remembered from times when, during work, their opinions clashed and she hurt his feelings. Brennan knew immediately that she'd hurt his feelings now, too.

"Booth…"

"Bones!" He jerked away, recoiling and almost tipping off his chair. The melody was not enough to quieten his distain. "I said _leave it_." She blinked, almost frightened by the fierceness in his tone. She swallowed, her fingers inches from his arm again. He slid off his stool, and pushed his drink away. "Will you be alright to get back? I'm going for a walk." Her eyes registered shock, then, he supposed, she felt a little bit like he'd felt when she'd walked out of DC. But, instead of her features displaying hurt, she nodded once.

"Sure. I'll be fine." Her lips were slightly tight when she spoke, but there was no evidence of extreme pain. At last not like that which he felt.

Outside, the rain Booth had predicted earlier had began, a light, aromatic drizzle that smelt like the countryside and made everything feel fresh and renewed. As he descended the four steps to the road, and began the long walk back to the cottage, his mind replayed the events of their relationship. He couldn't have imagined, when they were stuck in her elevator, that in a few short months, they'd be in a dark place like this.

God, the worst part of the dire situation was that he _needed_ to touch her. He needed to run his fingers through her silken hair, even once, just to remind himself of what it did to him. He wanted to nuzzle her breasts, and maybe even taste her little nipples on his tongue.

He hardened, and he cursed himself, kicking a loose stone on the winding road. Was it just that he was, underneath all the dark brooding and troubled persona, a typical male with the inability not to harden at the image of a naked woman?

_Not naked woman,_ he reminded himself. _Brennan is… fuck… everything._

The wind blew violently, almost tipping unto the other side of the road. He stumbled, reaching to the old wooden fence for balance. His legs shook, his adrenaline high.

"Whoa… careful there," he felt a hand grip his arm, and he blinked, dazed, the slanting, misty rain obstructing his view. "Are you a little drunk there?" The woman's voice was thickly accented – a similar brogue to the barman.

"Maybe a little," he admitted, pressing his hand to his forehead, turning to the woman. He'd long red hair that blew around her shoulders, and bewitching green eyes. "The Guinness," he explained. "Stronger than you'd think." The woman smiled, stepping next to him. She wore a long green skirt and a jacket held together with an ancient bronze Celtic designed clip.

"You men," she joked. "Don't know when to stop. Where are you going, stranger? You're not from around here." He shook his head in the negative. "You're American, aye?" Their footfalls on the pebbly dirt-track were the only sounds, mixed with the recognisable sound of splashing water as the rain got heavier.

"Yes," he said. "I'm staying at the cottage just…" he pointed in the general direction of the ocean. Next to him, the woman laughed. She seemed unbothered by the rain. He suspected people around her developed an immunity to the weather.

"I'm Sorcha," she said at last. When he didn't speak, she laughed. "Y'know in Ireland, this is where you tell me _your_ name." He glanced at her through the darkness, quite unsure if he was going the right direction.

"Seeley," he said. "Um… Sorcha did you saw it was?" She nodded, her head bobbing, her hair matted around her cheeks, now a deep burnt orange. "Where are you going?" His investigative instinct kicked in.

"I live just over the hill," Sorcha said. "Beyond the little chapel." When it was bright, Booth remembered seeing a grey chapel, with ancient stonework, probably done by expert stone masons. He remembered admiring the bell at the top of the tower, and the crucifix mounted at the top. On Sunday, he'd make a point of going to church. He hadn't been in awhile.

"With all due respect, though, I'm not the one who seems lost," Sorcha commented, and his laughter was lost into the night.

"I seem lost?" Booth asked, almost falling into a pot-hole in the road. His foot tipped to the side, and his ankle gave a painful twinge. The woman reached for his sleeve and rescued him from his second near fall of the evening.

"You'll think twice about drinking so much," she said. "Aye. Lost." The words seemed layered with double meaning, and Booth wondered at just how accurate the girl's statement was. He couldn't remember being quite so lost in his life. "Can't find your way?" Her voice had a sort of melodic soothing to it. He shrugged.

"Everyone gets lost sometimes," he said.

"Aye," Sorcha conceded as they rounded a bend in the road and began a steep incline. "Me ma always said that feelings are like a maze and your soul can try to find its way as much as it likes. But at the end of the day, trail and error is what makes us find our way again. I reckon we'll all stumble upon the right track at some point. Am I making sense to you?" Booth shrugged.

"Not really. But your mom sounded wise." Sorcha laughed.

"T'was, aye. Wise as an owl, was me ma. So, why so glum? Drinking blues?" Booth shook his head.

"I'm not _that_ drunk."

"All evidence to the contrary. Are you sure you know where you're going?" Sorcha asked, brushing her titan hair from her eyes.

"Literally or figuratively?" Booth wondered aloud. The woman laughed and he realised even her laughter had an accent. There was hardly any light now, but his own eyes had adjusted to notice again how bright green hers were.

"Whatever," she shrugged. "Literally or figuratively." She stopped, and it took a moment for him to realise she had. When he did, he paused too. "Can you find your way back to your cottage, Seeley?" She asked, five feet away from him now. He nodded. "Good. This is where I cut off," Sorcha said, gesturing into the darkness. There was no road, no gap in the fence. "Take care, won't you." It wasn't a question. He turned in a circle, wondering where she would go. The path to the right led to the ocean, and a steep cliff at that, and to the left, the mountains rose, quite uninhabitable and there was no way anyone was climbing it tonight. In fact, the only way to go was the way they had been heading.

"Hey…" he turned, but she was gone. In fact, it was almost as though she'd never been there at all. There was no sounds of her retreating steps, no noise except for the wind as it whispered against his ears, the rain as it fell on the road and the formidable whoosh of the ocean in the distance. "Damn weird," he said, retracing his steps down the hill to where she stood. He kicked the dirt and heard the clink of metal.

Crouching, Booth took the intricately twined bronze clip into his hand. "Hey!" He called into the darkness. "Sorcha! Hey! You dropped your clip! Sorcha!" The wild answered his calls, and nothing more.

Frowning, he ran his fingers over the clip. It felt old beneath his touch. Weathered. "Booth…?" He started, spinning. Brennan stood behind him, her hair soaked, rain slipping off her milky white skin as she pursed her lips, her body trembling a little. He noted that she was crying.

"Bones…" he said, a little distracted. "Did you see the woman?" His partner frowned, brushing her tiny hand over her forehead, swiping fruitlessly at the rain there.

"What woman?" She asked, and this time, he noticed the husky tone in her voice, and watched as tears spilled over her eyes, unto her cheeks. "Booth… it hurts." She said, reaching out, taking his arms in her hands. He froze, his heart squeezing painfully. "It hurts so much. I feel…" she sighed. "I feel like someone's ripped my soul out and I want it back." She sobbed, bunching her fingers into fists and pounding at his chest, wrenching sobs cutting through her throat. "I want it back, Booth…" He pulled her close, pressing his lips to her forehead.

"You'll get your soul back. I promise." He didn't know what he was promising. But he hoped the mysterious Sorcha woman was right. He hoped everyone did, inevitably, find their way back unto the right path.

"Not my soul," she choked, her breath painfully sharp. "My baby. I want my baby back. Our baby…" she repeated the words over and over until eventually her voice was so soft, it disappeared with each breezy gust.

Stepping back, Booth dropped the bronze medallion into his pocket and took her hand. "We'll find our way, Temperance," he said. "Because our feelings are just a maze. And our souls will always find their way to freedom."

"And our baby?" She asked. He paused to contemplate this for a moment.

"Our baby will find it's way to Heaven," he said. And around them, the rain stopped.

Literally. And liked to believe, figuratively, too.

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I don't believe in Heaven. I am an Atheist, much like Brennan. Well, perhaps Atheist is a little strong. I am, perhaps, an Agnostic. But, when I was young, my little brother died when he was just a baby and I like to believe his soul went to Heaven.

I have to admit, I almost made myself cry with this one. While my intentions are not to make you cry, I hope you felt it, too.

And wolfy, since you mentioned in your review that you lost your baby, I figured you didn't mind people knowing. This is for your baby – I hope you little one's soul found its way to Heaven, too.

Oh and, is Sorcha a ghost? That's for you to decide.


	19. Frantic Release

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Brennan or Booth. Or the concept of Bones, for that matter.

**Rating: **M

**A/N: **Thanks for all the lovely reviews, once again. I'll edge towards happiness shortly, I promise.

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"Hey sweetie!" Angela's voice was unforgivably chirpy for a Sunday morning. What was worse, was that DC was behind by quite a few hours. How did her best friend manage not to rest at the weekend?

"Hey Ange," Brennan mumbled, her cheek pressed into her downy feather pillow. "What time is it?" Her hand searched blindly for her watch on the bedside table.

"Well, it's five thirty, here. Which makes you an official lazy bum. Get up." Brennan found her watch, and turned the face towards her, blinking dazedly at the shifting hands. Ten thirty. "Where's your hunk Federal agent, these days?" Angela asked, a sing-song note to her voice.

Brennan stiffened, glancing over her shoulder to find that the bed was empty, and when she passed her leg over the sheets, they were cool. He'd been gone awhile. "I honestly can't say…" she replied, trailing her fingers through her hair. "Is everything alright, Angela?" Brennan could almost feel her best friend nodding at the other end of the line.

"Everything is _fine_ sweetie. I just wanted to let you know we got the remains that you had FedEx-ed over. They arrived yesterday and your dutiful little assistant stayed in the lab until after midnight. It was Saturday night, Brennan. Zach's turned into a bona fide geek." Slipping from beneath the covers, Brennan yawned and stretched.

"Leave Zach alone, Angela. Besides, I don't need you corrupting him. He'll be calling in on Monday's with a bad case of 'the flu'." Angela, hardly ever contrite and _never_ bashful, just laughed.

"That only happened once, sweetie. How are you?" The unexpectedness of her question caught Brennan unawares. She stared at herself in the mirror for a long moment, noting that the darkened circles beneath her eyes had faded and her sink had regained a healthy colour instead of the sickly pallor she'd become to used to, these days. She was eating better, too.

"I'm good. It's Booth I'm worried about," she said, dropping her eyes to the bronze clip on the dressing table. "He's seeing ghosts. A sure sign of insanity." Angela laughed, the sound tinny and so far away. Brennan missed her friend. Missed the sometimes shallow girlish conversations.

""Ghosts? Like… real ones?" Brennan rolled her eyes, turning away from the clip.

"Ghosts don't exist, Angela," she scolded. "So no, not real ones. Figments of his tired imagination, maybe." The living room was pleasantly warm and mysteriously empty. Booth, it seemed, had gone out, opting not to sleep in. Didn't he realise it was Sunday.

"In your opinion, maybe. But I didn't call to discuss souls of the underworld. Have you two… you know…" Brennan moved into the kitchen and filled the kettle, her brows knitted. They hadn't done _anything_, since her unlikely breakdown a few nights previous. Aside from some hand holding, and words of comfort, Booth had been… physically distant. "Ooh… really? Not even once?" Angela said, interpreting her silence/

"No… but it's early days yet. We're coping." Coping was a pretty average word which meant the weren't steaming on nicely towards happiness. It meant she hadn't toppled off the fine line between sanity and insanity, either. It simply meant, she existed. "Booth has locked his feelings up, for a little while. I think he's a bit shaken…"

"By his ghostly experience?" Angela sounded incredulous.

"No… maybe. Hey, I'm not a psychologist. I hate all that." The bolt on the door slipped up as the handle outside turned, and she spun. He looked fresher, this morning, his dark eyes watching her as his lips curled into a smile. "Hey, Ange, I have to go. Call you later…"

Booth unwrapped his scarf from around his neck, and shook his jacket down his arms. "Just up, Bones?" He asked, dropping both items to the stand behind the door. She hummed in response. "Oh hey, the you're making coffee. Reading my mind, now?" His hand brushed her elbow as she stepped past her, and his touch, despite the cold autumn morning, was hot against her skin.

"Booth? Where did you go?" He snagged an apple from the fruit bowl on the table, sinking his teeth into the fresh green fruit.

"Church," he replied. "How are you this morning?" She was growing impatient with everyone's constant queries of how she was. Booth might have been asking in polite passing, but the sentiment was still there. The same sentiment as Angela, which had the unspoken question attached 'are you going mad, yet?'.

"I'm fine," she replied briskly. "Why church? Are you feeling religious all of a sudden?" Booth crunched on the apple, again, shrugging.

"I have religious values, yes. And they're not sudden. Some of us are raised with religion in mind." Brennan scoffed, spooning coffee into two cups and pouring the steaming water into each.

"You mean like brainwashed? And what are you trying to imply?" His eyebrows lifted, a touch of malice evident in expression.

"I wasn't implying _anything_, Bones," he snapped. "I go to church, you don't. I don't brainwash you. Let it go." She mumbled her apology, passing him a cup, which he accepted, his eyes a little suspicious. "What did Angela want?" He asked, the coffee burning his tongue a little as he sipped. Brennan gave an easy shrug.

"Checking up on me, I guess. And you. She asked about you." Booth nodded slowly. "We're not having sex, why is that?" The question, so random, yet so direct and entirely suitable for Brennan, took him by surprise. An chunk of apple lodged in his throat and it was all he could do, not to choke.

"What…?" He mulled over this for a moment, then shrugged. "We can if you want." There was a naughtiness in his grin that disarmed her, and made her smile. She chuckled, the sound warm and husky. He missed their easiness.

"I do…" she admitted. "Grief is a desperately lonely process, don't you think." He nodded, sipping his coffee again, watching her over the top of his cup. "Um… do you? Want to, I mean?" He straightened, distinctly aware of his body's reaction to her suggestion.

"This is crazy, Bones. We don't usually stand around discussing it. Normally, we just… do." She mulled this over for a moment, and nodded sharply. Booth set his cup aside and reached out, snagging the waist of her pyjama shorts, yanking her towards him. Her coffee spilt, and she ignored it, releasing the mug from her hand. It tumbled, crashing to the floor and smashing. It went unnoticed. His touch was all over her, moving across her back, beneath her shirt, stroking her skin. His lips had crashed down upon hers. She titled her head, stunned at the mutual need that crackled between them.

Her own fingers leapt into action, splayed across his chest, tugging at the buttons of his sensible Sunday shirt. Warmth radiated from the body she had missed so much. He felt hard, and alive, and at that moment, all she needed. Angela's call had reminded her, quite abruptly, of how much she loved having Booth inside her.

She heard the old cotton of her shirt tear, as his fingers pulled at the material. Booth spun, knocking her against the counter, broken shards of ceramic so close to the soles of her feet. Yet she didn't care. A sweep of wet arousal pulsed between her thighs and nothing besides their mutual nudity, mattered.

He tugged at her shorts, freeing her of the navy blue pyjamas and her underwear at the same time. His hands moved over her thighs, over her belly, cupping at her breasts. He felt her nipples, hardened into aching points, against his palms.

"Is now the right time, Bones?" He asked as her dexterous little fingers unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants in five seconds. Her mouth was upon his again, her fingers wrapped around the steel length of his erection.

"Do you doubt it?" She asked. He did. But with each stroke, his resolve melted a little, and he was unable to voice his concerns that, perhaps, it was too soon for both of them. He hooked her thighs, pressed her against the workbench again, and slid into her warm wetness.

When he glanced down, he saw the fading mark of the bullet wound in her thigh, when he lifted his eyes, the circular gash in her shoulder seemed to scream out at him as a constant reminder of what had happened when a forensic anthropologist went into the field. Damn, it made him angry, still.

He concentrated his anger on his thrusts, his movements frenzied and livid, but she didn't seem to mind. Her legs wrapped around him, welcoming every inch of his fury. She moaned her appreciation of his frantic movements, her fingers digging into his scalp. She bucked wildly against him, her hair framing her lovely face as her features contorted in an expression of pleasure.

"Yes…" she whimpered, as she climaxed around him. Adrenaline, mixed with anger and lust made him come. It had been so long since they last made love, he felt as though there should have been a tenderness to their touch. Yet all he felt was satisfaction and release. No loving epiphany.

As she dressed, she cleaned up the spilt coffee and scooped the shards into a dustpan, her eyes unfocused. She sighed. He wondered if maybe she'd expected a romantic reunion, too. God, once the elation of orgasm disappeared, he felt pretty damn lousy.

"Bones?" He said, pressing his fingers against his eyes.

"Hmm?" She replied vaguely.

"I'm sorry." There was a long pause.

"Yeah," she said. "Me too."

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A release, of sorts. Romantic, lovely-gubbly stuff shall return.


	20. Cold Day in Ireland

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **I do not own these characters. Poor me.

**Rating: **T.

**A/N: **I have been so busy for the past few days. I have barely had time to even check my mail. So, if you've been waiting on this, so sorry for the delay.

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"When are you leaving?" Brennan asked, slipping her arms into a heavy sweater, her hair standing on end, dishevelled and so unlike her.

"Wednesday," Booth replied, unlocking the front door and pulling the heavy wood back, allowing the tepid autumn sun to leak into the cottage. "Will you…" he paused, his brow furrowed a little. There'd been a kind of awkwardness between them since their kitchen 'fuck'. Quite a few days had transpired, yet, the memory of the less than romantic event played inside his mind as though it were only a few hours ago. "When will you be coming?" He rephrased, stepping outside.

Brennan pulled her hair back, binding it with a coated band. She looked as though she were born to live in the country; woolly sweater, faded jeans, sturdy boots and ruffled mahogany hair. She looked the Temperance that didn't bother to be perfectly preened every day.

"Maybe in another month or so…" she said with a light shrug. "It'll be difficult to leave this place." He followed her around the cottage, to the top of the uneven steps and together, they paused to look at the beach. The sandy strip, a dark golden, was deserted. Booth couldn't remember it ever being busy. In fact, it seemed almost as though people didn't know it existed. He liked the thought. A secret beach. Like the secret garden, except he could have believed it was infinite. From here, he could barely see where it ended.

The air carried the distinct scent of seaweed and he inhaled it deep into his lungs, absorbing, certain he was breathing in the purest of air. "A whole month," he said at last, exhaling so deeply, he sounded as though he were sighing. Perhaps he was.

"A month isn't a long time," Brennan said, beginning the descent to the beach below.

"It is for me," Booth reached out, slipping his hand into hers. She tensed for the smallest of moments, then her fingers relaxed around his. "I'll miss you, Bones. I always so, when you're not around." He lifted his eyes to the cloudless sky. After weeks of rain and looming grey clouds, he welcomed heated air, the bright yellow glow.

"I'll miss you too," she admitted after a long while. "But you still have a job to do. And so do I." Her job. It was a thought that had been looming like a threatening balloon, ready to explode. Her work. Her science. _Her_ everything. Lately, it seemed as though she'd squeeze him in whenever she could, and, even though he'd travelled across the world to be by her side, it didn't matter because more ancient remains had been found.

Work. Work. Work.

"Yes," he said. "I know." A breeze ruffled her hair as silence fell upon them, and Brennan wondered what she ought to say. It seemed their chances of ever rectifying their relationship were slipping further and further away. He'd almost lost his grip on it completely.

Even as he held her hand now, she was detached from him, as far away as any person mentally could be. And it wasn't the baby that put the space between them now. It was Brennan's fear of getting hurt, again. He felt a surge of answer, and slipped his hand free, curling his fingers into a tight fist.

"Booth… what…?" He spun, surprised to find himself glaring into the crystalline depths of her blue eyes. He felt the breath whoosh from his lungs, and saw her lips thin in confusion. He flexed the aching muscles of her fists, and closed his eyes, almost swaying on the sand.

"This isn't worth it, Bones," he said with slow determination. "I love you _so_ much. Really, I do. But I'm here and you're way out somewhere else inside your mind because you have some illogical fear of having your heart broken. I am… so tired of this. I've done all I can. And bar giving you my soul, there is nothing else I can do." She reached out, clasping his hand, her nails digging into his palm.

Shaking her head, he watched her eyes well, and hated himself for the agony. "Booth… no…" she whispered. He saw the explanation form on her lips, and stepped back, her hand falling from within his.

"No, Temperance. No more. Selfishness has no place in a relationship. You're not the only person who hurts. We all hurt sometimes." She swallowed hard as he shook his head. "We all… hurt…"

He strode away from her, back to the foot of the steps, and he paused. "Love is a fragile thing, Bones. It's easier to banish it than it is to banish hurt and pain. You're cold and reserved. And even I can't break in. I'm sorry."

She didn't call him as she watched his retreating back. Her body felt numb and her heart heavy. After twenty minutes, she heard the purr of the engine and she knew he'd left. Brennan didn't move, even to confirm her suspicions because it didn't seem worth the agony.

Her eyes wept for her loss. But her heart felt nothing but loathing towards her self. Was she incapable of love? Did normality frighten her so much? She knew the answers to both questions, and the knowledge scared the hell out of her. Did she honestly believe that she could continue her aloofness and Booth would just be there whenever she finally decided to pull herself out of her depression?

He hurt, too.

And she was cold. So desperately cold.

When she went back to her cottage, the rooms were empty and all evidence that he was ever there, was gone. Except for the bronze medallion, laying on the counter where it had remained since he'd found it. Next to it, a note, scrawled in his recognisable hand-writing.

_For times when there seems to be no escape, remember that we all find our way home, sometimes. _

When she shifted the paper aside, she saw an airline ticket, dated for Wednesday. He'd wanted her to come home with him.

Turning the note overleaf, she sighed. It was blank. No 'I love you' or 'please can we be together'. It was almost as though he'd given up. And yet, in his own despair, he'd found time to console her.

Sinking to her knees, clutching the airline ticket to her chest, she sobbed. For all the things she'd lost.


	21. Awakening

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **I do not own these lovely characters. They belong to 20th Century Fox. But it doesn't stop me having so much fun with them!

**Rating: **This is an M rated story and a T rated chapter.

**A/N: **I hope everyone is liking this so far. I decided how I wanted to play out this chapter, so I just had to write it tonight. There is plenty for BB action to come, but perhaps a little more fluff a little less angst. Let me know what you think.

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Buckling his seatbelt, Booth unfolded the discarded newspaper he'd found in the boarding lounge. It seemed all news was bad news, but it was easier than looking out the window at the grey sky and the prospect of rain. Perhaps New York would be brighter. He had to admit, he wouldn't exactly miss the miserable Irish weather.

Taking a pen from inside his jacket, he attempted the crossword puzzle, then, when fourteen across stumped him, he began his attack on the arrow word. The lady next to him had settled down to sleep, and the plane hadn't even finished boarding, yet. Some people were just too eager. Clicking his tongue, he sighed.

"One…" he murmured, looking blankly at the letters. "Single… no, that doesn't fit." He trailed his fingers over his head, listening vaguely as the doors clicked shut and the air hostesses began the routine preparations for flight. "Singular…" sighing again, he scribbled in the corner of the page. "I hate arrow word."

"Would you be quiet please?" The woman opened her eyes, glaring at him. He blinked.

"The plane hasn't even moved away from the terminal yet," he said slowly. "And speculating aloud helps me to think." The woman opened her mouth to speak.

"Don't worry, it annoys me too." Together they glanced up, Booth in astonishment, the woman in confusion at the red-haired suit-clad Brennan. "One, solitaire?" His brows furrowed and he glanced down at the newspaper, his face breaking into a grin.

"My God… I could be in the running for a hundred pounds…" Brennan glanced down now, her smile still sympathetic.

"I'll make sure he says quiet. Sort of." She stepped over the woman's legs. "As soon as we have a little chat. In the mean time, you might want to make use of the earplugs." As ever, Brennan sounded ironic, when in fact, there was no sarcasm intended. The raven haired woman straightened in her chair, her lips thin.

"Excuse me?"

"Well," Booth said, "that _is_ what they're for…" Her dark eyes flashed and she seemed to growl. Brennan buckled herself in, as the captain spoke over the intercom. She ignored him, pulling her hair from its tight binding and ruffling the silken stands. After a long moment, she sighed loudly.

"I need a drink," she said. "I only just made it." Booth ran his fingertips over his two day stubble before folding his newspaper and tucking it into the pocket before him. He watched her as she craned her neck, looking for an stewardess to assist her sudden desire for gin. Or rum. Whichever unnecessary spirit that took her fancy.

When the engines roared, and the plane thrust forward, he settled back against his chair and finally turned his eyes to the overcast skies above. Within minutes they'd be propelling through the gloom, into the clear blue stratosphere beyond. He was looking forward to seeing the sun again. The last time had been…

"Why did you come, Bones?" He asked as the plane ceased to touch the tarmac and the land below seemed to be pulled away. The green fields looked sewn together, again. The hedgerows that separated the land acted as rough, inaccurate stitching on a world that was both majestic and haunting. Yet, he didn't think he'd miss it that much.

Brennan reached into her jacket, producing the little clip. It seemed more tarnished now. Seeped in history. "This," she said, dropping it into his lap, as though it explained everything.

"O…kay," Booth said, running his thumb over the rough bronze. "Sorcha's medallion. So…" Brennan shook her head, reaching above the push the 'attention' button. A chime went off, as the plane levelled out.

"It is irrelevant who owns it, Booth. I doubt we'll ever agree on _that_. Ghosts…" she scoffed, almost chuckling. "More like an insane woman wandering in the rain-"

"She didn't _sound_ insane. And besides which-"

"Besides which, ghosts wouldn't leave physical evidence of their having been there!" Brennan countered.

"Besides which, there was no place for her to go. She just disappeared," Booth fired back, his fingers tight around the clip.

"Locals know places we don't," Brennan said, tucking her hair behind her ear. "And this 'Sorcha' woman wasn't like some ghostly entity." Booth threw his hands into the air, shaking his head in despair.

"For someone who doesn't watch movies, you sure know who to stereotype. There was _something_ about her, Bones…" Brennan nodded.

"There was indeed." He seemed surprised at her agreement, but said nothing. "She said to you that emotions are like a maze. And, even though you repeated this to me, I don't think I listened. Well, not _really_. I was too busy drowning in my own despair. I thought the pain of losing _our_ baby was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. Until you left. And then it was like…" she paused, watching as the grey clouds broke and the sky outside became infinitely blue. "It was like I bobbed to the surface and I was able to breathe again. And I didn't like the taste of reality. My emotions were a maze. And you leaving as the guide that showed me the exit." Booth was quiet for a long time, and finally the steward arrived.

She had curly blonde hair, like ringlets and extensive eye makeup that made her brown irises seem enormous. She passed her gaze across Booth, then smiled prettily before turning her attention to Brennan. "Can I get you something, ma'am?" She asked.

"Can I have a vodka, please? Ice. No mixer." The stewardess nodded, once.

"And you, sir? Would you like anything?" Booth waved his hand, and she moved off, leaving them alone, aside from the dozing woman, whose yellow earplugs apparently served their purpose.

"Ireland didn't turn out to be so nice for us, huh?" Booth said, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. Despite the beautiful scenery, their love hadn't fell back into place until they'd boarded the plane that would take them away from its celestial beauty. When he opened his eyes, Brennan was shaking her head slowly.

"I think it did," she said at last. I would never have found the courage I needed to swallow my fear. I would have remained oblivious to your pain and essentially been selfish until your love for me would simply have… failed to exist. Coming to Ireland might not have been the romantic reunion you had in mind," she reached across, taking his hand in hers, "but it ended better for me than I could ever have wished for." He squeezed her fingers, and the stewardess set a set a plastic glass and a mini-vodka on Brennan's fold down table.

After a satisfying sip, her shoulders eased. "Nice," she said, her throat scorched.

"So," Booth said, his eyes bright. "Still no kids?" Brennan chuckled, draining her glass.

"A couple more of these and I'd agree to anything you asked." Reaching above her head, she dinged the attention button again and winked. "Ask me again in a couple of hours."

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A happy ending? Well, if you don't think so, there's some nice BB fluff to come. I hope everyone thought it was an appropriate time to ease up on the dark stuff. Let me know via reviews! Wink, wink, nudge, nudge!


	22. A Friend's Dilemma

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **Nope. Not mine.

**Rating: **T

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing. This is just some Brennan/Goodman interaction, here. I hope I have stayed true to the characters. Let me know if you liked. Oh, and this is officially my longest story ever! I'm past the thirty six thousand word mark of A Dangerous Aficionado! Yay me! Haha!

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"_Sweetie_!" Angela screeched, engulfing her best friend in a hug that sucked the air from her lungs. Brennan winced, her own embrace weak compared to that of the hyper-active artist. "How are you?"

Brennan dropped her bag to the floor, straightening her spine. "Growing increasingly frustrated with that question," she admitted. Angela arched an eyebrow skyward, and smirked a little.

"You look a little pale, honey…" she said, pulling a chair away from the work bench and insisting that Brennan sit. "Are you sick?" Brennan clicked her tongue.

"No. I had a _little_ too much to drink on the plane last night. Apparently vodka and high altitudes don't mix well together." She pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing loudly before rubbing tight circles around her temples. "When will I learn? Has anything exciting happened here?" Angela half shrugged.

"We got the package you FedEx-ed over. Nice. Zach's been working on it religiously. Otherwise…" she paused, glancing down at her feet. "I need to talk to you…" she said. Brennan stopped massaging her temples, her curiosity aroused. "Do you have time for coffee?" She glanced down at her watch and winced.

"Not exactly. Goodman wants me in his office in ten minutes. How about lunch?" Angela nodded, her face brightening. "Well, I'll see you at twelve thirty, then," Brennan said, slipping off the chair, slinging her bag over her shoulder again. "Is… everything okay, though?" Her best friend waved her hand, rocking on her toes.

"Everything's cool, sweetie. Go work. I'll be in my office if you need me." Brennan swiped her card, descending the steps and striding across the lab to where she knew Daniel Goodman would be waiting, ready to tackle her for a detailed report of her trip. The Celtic warrior and his artefacts would no doubt have provoked his archaeological nature.

Sitting behind his desk, Goodman looked imposing and commanding, with penetrating dark eyes and an almost ominous expression. When he smiled, however, he looked like the kindest man Brennan had ever met.

"Dr Brennan," he said, rising off his chair and gesturing to the one opposite his desk. "How are you?" She bit down on her tongue, her smile tight. It took all of her resolve to respond in her politest manner.

"I'm fine," she said, crossing her legs. "A little tired." Goodman nodded slowly.

"I got a call from Seamus O'Rourke yesterday morning…" he said. "It seems you didn't deem the work valuable enough to stay…" Brennan dropped her eyes to her hands, her fingers knotted. "Has something happened? Something that required you to come home?" Goodman pressed, and she shook her head.

"No, sir," she said. "I just wanted to come home." Her boss laughed, the sound devoid of mirth. In fact, he seemed almost pissed, now.

"Bosnia, Temperance. You've been to Bosnia, Guatemala, war-torn countries, and you except me to believe that you were, what? Homesick?" She sighed, her breath shuddering. Privacy, it seemed, was something that wouldn't be afforded to her, now that she'd tossed aside a case that would have been quite invaluable to the Jeffersonian as an institute.

"I ditched my physiotherapy to go to Ireland," she said expecting Goodman to look even half contrite. His steely glare didn't waver.

"Why was Booth out there?" The question hit her like a sledgehammer, and she felt her eyes widen. "A little extra curricular work?" She heaved a deep sigh, releasing her fingers and closing her eyes. How had Goodman found out? Angela wouldn't have told. Hodgins was keen to keep _everything_ a secret from their boss and Zach… it didn't figure. "O'Rourke told me about the guy who was staying with you. I'm not stupid, Temperance. It wasn't difficult to work it out. So…"

"I can do the work here," she said, ignoring the unspoken question. "Zach is working on the warrior and once I get out of this meeting, I will be joining him in the verification process. All my equipment is here. This laboratory will give us double the avenues of investigation. I was useless out there." Goodman reclined in his chair, his black eyes unblinking.

"You're almost convincing me," he said at last. "Booth…?" She moaned aloud, her headache had intensified tenfold, and she wished she'd foregone alcohol the previous night. It wasn't the first time that morning she'd swore never to touch Smirnoff again.

"When I was shot I was pregnant," she said, lifting her eyes to gauge the surprise in her boss's eyes. She was somewhat satisfied to see that he looked, not only surprised, but dumbfounded. "I miscarried as a result of that and when the opportunity arose to go to Ireland, I took it because I wanted to be away from here. I feel better now…" Goodman, never nervous, suddenly was.

"The Jeffersonian cannot be used as an excuse to run away, Temperance," he said quietly. Brennan swiped her hand angrily.

"We all use our careers to escape sometimes…"

"Not with the same hefty price tag as you!" Goodman snapped, then softened. "Look, I am very sorry for your loss but understand it from my point of view. How do I explain to the board that you wasted thousands of dollars while running off to find yourself? How do I explain that you up and left with barely any warning?"

Brennan shrugged. "I'll pay for it. Is there anything else?" She rose, her chest tight. Goodman opened his mouth as if to speak but instead, just shook his head.

"No, Dr Brennan, that'll be all."

"Good. I'll be in my office, doing work, ensuring that the Jeffersonian's resources aren't going to waste." She spoke with a biting tone that Goodman wasn't familiar with, especially in the always literal Dr Brennan. But her sarcastic edge told him that she was frustrated by his inquiries and a little hurt by his lack of sympathy. Or maybe not. She hated sympathy anyway. Maybe she just resented that he hadn't been a little more understanding.

She pulled the door open. "Temperance… I'm sorry." He said. She froze, her back to him.

"Yeah. Thanks," she replied shortly, easing the door shut behind her. She felt both ashamed at her actions and satisfied with her determination to keep her private life as private as possible. Goodman did not need to know that she and Booth were lovers. He would no doubt put two and two together, but as long as she didn't confirm anything, her privacy as still her own.

The morning passed without event, and Brennan found herself eating flame grilled chicken salad drenched in French vinaigrette while Angela chewed nervously on her lip in between bites of her sandwich. After a long few moments, Brennan dropped her fork into her bowl and sighed.

"What's the matter, Angela?" She asked, and her friend jumped, as though startled. "I've never seen you so… out of it." Ange nodded slowly.

"I've never felt so out of it. I don't know what's going on with me." Brennan frowned, and the expression was enough to prompt her friend into continuing. "I was working late two nights ago. One of the limbo guys needed a face and I had nothing to do. Monday nights are a bitch, you know? Nothing on TV… and even I'm not sad enough to go partying on Monday's…" she tucked her hair behind her ear and sighed. "So, there I was, sketching away, not really thinking about anything, when…" she paused again. "Jack came in…"

"Oh God…" Brennan said, no longer hungry. "Angela…"

"No! Wait…" she drained her glass of Diet Coke. "So, he comes into my office and starts poking around my art stuff, talking about something he found on the victim which helps to identify where he was killed blah, blah, I don't really listen. Then the next thing I know, he's asking me questions about well… _me_." Brennan blinked. "And instead of drawing John Doe 896's nose I am thinking about _why_ Jack is asking about me. And I find that I quite like it. But before I can analyse this, because I'm not as quick at analysing as you…"

"Gee, thanks…"

"he's kissing me. And I mean… Hodgins? Hello? But… fuck… Bren… I _liked_ it. And I didn't want it to end. And now I've been avoiding him like the plague." Her cheeks were flushed and her hand trembled around her sandwich.

"Why? Because you're afraid to face him?" Brennan sipped her Coke. Angela shook her head, her black eyes demented.

"No! Because I'm afraid I'll not stop at kissing this time. Oh… fuck…" she said again. "I actually feel attracted to Jack Hodgins the 'slime guy'. I…" Brennan laughed, shrugging her shoulders.

"Then… don't stop…" she said as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

"Just like that?" Angela said, incredulous. Brennan smiled.

"Just like that," she said.

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Hodgins and Angela would make such a nice couple, and I think Hodgins is adorable, actually. He's got the nicest blue eyes. Of course, Booth wins hands down on the 'who I'd drag to bed' poll… but I can imagine Ange and Jack together. Can you? Oh, and I needed a little break from the BB for a bit. Next chapter will very much so feature my favourite duo.

Now go review!


	23. With An Asian Vibe

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Rating: **For reasons you will soon learn, this chapter is rated M.

**A/N: **I _love_ The X-Files. But over here in the Bones archive, we're really putting the X-Files archive to shame! No one reviews over there! Not that I've posted anything, but there is this really cool story, for all X-Philes, by Michelle Dessler. Check it out if you're into it, and review! The girl is an excellent writer. Really, for having over 5000 stories, you'd think people would bother their arses! Anyway, before you do that, don't forget to read and review this!

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Her hands slid over her thighs and she rocked her hips, swaying with rhythm to the sultry drum beat, the tinny sitar, her spine moving like a wriggling snake. Her back was bare, aside from her sports bra, and he watched the muscles tense and ease as she danced to the Hindi beat.

"Whatever that is, please don't stop," he said, dropping his keys to the coffee table. She started, spinning on the balls of her feet. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and genuine exercise. He saw a bead of sweat as it ran from her clavicle over her sternum and between her breasts.

"It's Bollywood dancing… kind of like belly-dancing only…" she paused, dropping her eyes to the floor. "What are you doing here?" Booth held up two paper bags, and grinned.

"I _was_ going to make dinner. But now I'm going to watch you dancing half naked while my crotch continues to harden at a painful rate." He set the bags on the floor, crossing his arms over his chest. When she merely glared, he grinned. "Please continue. The more agile you muscles, the better for me." Her glare weakened while she contemplated.

"I thought you like my muscles tight. At least… that's what you always say just whenever you're in-"

"Okay… enough," he dropped his arms, defeated. "Dinner." Brennan reached for her water bottle, emptied half of it in three long gulps and he watched as her chest heaved as she did. Her nipples pressed against the white cotton and he felt his heart pound erratically at the sight. Damn… she was killing him. Or at least she would, soon. "I'm making… spiced chicken and… Bones… what are you doing?"

She slipped out of her bra, her naked breasts swaying as she began to move towards the bathroom. "I'm going for a shower… what did you say you were making?" He swallowed, moving after her. He heard the water come on, and listened to her as she began arranging shower gel and shampoo inside the stall.

When he stepped into the bathroom, she was naked, unabashed by her nudity. "I'm going to have a shower," she repeated, pulling the glass door back and thrusting her hand under the spray. Satisfied it was warm, she stepped inside, and a soft moan escaped her lips. He watched her for a long moment, her naked body writhing beneath the steamed glass.

Brennan lathered coconut and vanilla shampoo into her hair, the Asian beats pumping inside her veins. Even without the music, the sexy rhythm stayed with her. She let it, humming to a tune only she could hear. Her hips still swayed, her fingers massaging her scalp as she worked the shampoo into her hair.

Her hands stilled when she felt his fingertips on her hips, his arm slipping around her waist. "I'm trying to shower…" she complained feebly, dropping her arms. She felt his lips, hot and wet, against the base of her neck. When her body jerked, she realised he was as naked as she was and irreversibly aroused.

"I know…" he sighed, their bodies slick with foamy shampoo. "But it's really your own fault. Who dances Bollywood in a sports bra, I ask you?" She smiled into the spray, his hands moving across her breasts, his fingertips tweaking at her nipples.

"I was supposed to be alone. _You_ rudely interrupted…" His tongue touched the edge of her jaw, and her hand fell against the wall, trying to regain her balance. Her head felt light and the steam curled around her.

"Oh don't tell me you don't like being interrupted," Booth said, his hand moving deftly between her thighs. She moaned, her fingers clawing at the white ceramic. "I didn't think so…" he chuckled, rubbing her. "You did it to entice me, you naughty… naughty…" she breathed in, her body melting against him.

"How was I to know you were going to turn up? When did I give you a key?" He smiled against her shoulder before taking her earlobe between his lips. "Booth… you should be…"

"In you," he finished. "Now." Soapy bubbles passed over her back, over her breasts and over her belly. He followed their uneven path, setting her skin on fire with each touch. Despite the logical refusal that formed on her lips, thanks to her rational mind telling her it was dangerous to have sex in the shower, she didn't speak.

She turned in his embrace, a groan of discomfort passing her lips as he pressed her against the wall and hooked her thighs, wrapping endlessly long, slim legs around his waist. He felt himself harden further, as their breath merged and his lips touched hers. All doubts died where they stood, as he held her beneath the steamy cascade of water, one hand holding her secure, the other roaming through her soapy hair.

"You know I am hung over… right?" She mumbled against his lips, and Booth shrugged easily.

"I didn't get you drunk, Bones. You got _yourself_ drunk." He eased inside her, and instead of retorting, she groaned. "And apparently you're not opposed to this. Not really." She half conceded, tightening her thighs around him. "Bones… you feel so good. I take back what I said. Tight muscles _are_ best." She smiled against his shoulder, rocking against his hips, their mutual moans blotted only by the falling water and the pipes.

He held her, thrusting upward until she trembled around him, her voice crying out until even the water didn't soothe away the noise. "Um… love… um… yeah.. you…" he listened to her, proclaiming love, and came within her, his body tightening, welcoming the relief that left his muscles weak and tired. "Booth?" He wondered if maybe they were going to apologise to each other again. He froze, easing only when her hand fell upon his arm in a tender caress.

"Yeah?" He said, cranking the shower off.

"I feel really… _really_ happy today." He didn't entirely understand where her statement had come from, or why she felt the need to tell him. Nor could he explain why his chest seized at the words. But it was almost as though Temperance Brennan were offering him the world. Happiness, he knew, was scarce in reality. So few people were truly happy. Most of the time, they just persevered with what they had and resigned themselves because, what else was there? Happiness came only occasionally and only if one was very lucky.

"Me too," he said, meaning it entirely.

It didn't exactly matter how long it lasted for, or even if it lasted at all. Joy had a grip. He was oblivious to everything except how ever fibre in his body felt complete. "So…" she said, stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around herself.

"So," Booth said, "I hope I'll get the chance to see more of those Hindi moves…" she grinned wickedly, her saturated hair clinging to her neck and shoulders.

"Oh," she replied, slipping her arms around him. "I'm pretty sure it can be arranged."

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Don't forget to review! ) Thanks!


	24. By Definition

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **I do not have any rights to these characters. Boo-hoo!

**Rating: **Just a K, probably. But please read anyway you perverts!

**A/N: **Another chapter for This is Life – inspired by a moment of nothing else to do, today. The first time in what feels like forever. I thought it was necessary to update… it's been awhile.

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"Bones coming though!" Zach called from the far end of the steel gurney, his whole weight thrusting the tray forward as scientists parted like the Red Sea, their eyes curiously fixated to the yellowed, still dirty bones.

From the corner, against the cabinet that was filled with reference fragments and artefacts, Booth clicked his tongue, his arms folded across his chest in a show of masculine superiority. "It's a skeleton," he murmured to Angela with a slight hiss. "These guys act as though someone's just wheeled in the Holy Grail…"

Brennan glanced over her shoulder her eyes narrowed in a glare. "If someone handed you a top secret dossier what would _you_ do?" she asked, a narrow cinnamon eyebrow arched skyward while her lips remained impassively thin yet a perfect display of her lack of amusement.

"I'd probably be more concerned about where it came from than staring at it all day," he replied, clapping his hands together. "Okay folks," he turned to his own personal Squint Squad, excluding non-anthropological scientists from the conversation and effectively turning the room back into a laboratory and not a viewing gallery, "we have a stiff and I need an ID, what about it?" Zach narrowed his eyes, a perfect mirror image of his boss.

"He's not a stiff," he said, tilting his chin in that 'know all' manner that sometimes irritated the hell out of Booth. "A stiff should have skin and muscle and be in the fairly early stages of decomposition." Brennan was nodding in agreement as Booth rolled his eyes, smoothing down his tie.

"Well _that's_ me told. So, how's about identifying him then, Einstein?" He clapped Zach's shoulder and the assistant let out a small yelp of disapproval that was a perfect accompaniment to Brennan's glare. "Alright, what's wrong?" he asked, slipping his arm around her shoulders which stiffened beneath his touch, and leading her towards the relative privacy of the quarantined area. Once his card beeped access, she shrugged him off.

He held his hands up in mock surrender his brow furrowed into a deep set frown. "Down girl…" he chuckled. "What's going on?" Brennan glared at him with the kind of annoyance he hadn't seen in a fairly long time. There was a smidgen of hurt, maybe a little contempt but mostly she looked pissed off.

"Don't be so mean to Zach," she bit, crossing her arms beneath her breasts in a way that made her cleavage rest tightly beneath the v-necked olive green sweater she wore. "In fact, don't be so degrading towards all of us! Bones might not be _your_ Holy Grail but they are what we do…" Booth smirked, his hands slipping over her hips, his fingers trailing across the subtle indent of her spine, his eyes hooded and sensually dark.

"Bones _is_ my Holy Grail," he said, his thumbs brushing the underside of her breast and she shoved his hands away, torn between her irritation and the distinct flare of arousal.

"People can _see_ us," she hissed running a furtive glance over the lab. People could see them but no one was looking. "Be serious!" she snapped crossing her arms again. Booth smiled, nodding slowly. "Zach doesn't like being patronised…" Brennan was saying and he blinked, wide eyed and in a moderate shock of disbelief.

"_He_ doesn't like it? 'Oh a stiff should have skin and muscle and be in a fairly early stage of decomposition' C'mon, Bones, you assistant is the biggest squint around and he's sanctimonious about his intelligence, too. But hell, I like the kid. Just don't give me a hard time when I have to defend my own intelligence sometimes…" Brennan felt the edges of her mouth quirk.

"What intelligence?" she joked, shaking off her own annoyance. "I've been in a really bad mood all week," she admitted, wondering at how much she'd missed him when he'd been away. It bothered her when he was sent undercover where she couldn't be sure he was ever safe. All week her muscles had coiled tighter and tighter until she felt like the spring in a jack-in-the-box, moments away from releasing all her pent-up energies. "What happened?" Booth passed his palm over her bicep, a soft gesture that explained to her how much he understood the underlying concerns of her week. She'd been unable to concentrate on her work and he knew that. Each time they'd talked on the phone she'd sounded vague – a sure sign that she was repressing her anxieties. It was inevitable that she'd lose it eventually.

"Aside from a bump to my skull, I'm back unscathed," he said, toying with the loosened strands of cinnamon hair. She smelt like cinnamon today, too. Spicy and heady, almost like Christmas.

Her fingers danced over his scalp, encountering the wound. Booth rewarded her with a wince, his nose wrinkled in distaste. "Does it still hurt?" she asked, her eyes rounded in concern. He repressed the quirk about her intelligence and shrugged.

"It was a fairly heavy wrench," he explained. "But hey, occupational hazard I guess. How are you for lunch today?" It frightened her how easy it was for Booth to shake off the dangers of his job. Wielding a gun and shooting down the bad guy was an average day for a federal agent and while it excited her to be in the midst of it, she was slightly afraid that one day the inevitable 'I'm so sorry ma'am' call would come.

Except it probably wouldn't because who was she? She was the woman he slept with. His lover. They didn't live together and they were not married. They didn't use terms of endearment and they never announced the change in their relationship. Mostly, they were clandestine and fucking under a veil of secrecy.

"Lunch?" she murmured, shaking her head, quite confused at her own train of thought. "Sure… I'll get a start on the remains. How's one?" Booth watched her with unmasked concern, his dark eyes narrowed as he raked his gaze over her body in a sweep that was not sexual just apprehensive.

"One is fine. Are you alright?" She pulled her face into a smile.

"Sure. We'll talk later, okay?" Brennan descended the stairs, pinching the top of her nose. "Oh," she added as a last minute thought, "sorry for snapping." Booth dipped his head in ascent, watching her as she crossed the lab, her spine set in a rigid line, the smooth column of her neck, tense. Sometimes she was the hardest person to work out – one moment she was a feisty live-wire and the next it was as though someone had sapped all the life from her.

Today was one of those filled with vast contrasts in her emotions. He cleared his throat, shaking his head as his cell phone rang and he took the call, his shoulders sagging as Special Agent in Charge Michael Romany barked his unfortunate news down the line.

"We've got another one."

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"You look stressed," Brennan said, massaging her own temples, small strands of hair whispering against her cheeks, blown from their bindings by the howling wind beyond the restaurant window. A flurry of snow was carried with it and she felt as though Washington, D.C. were a giant snow globe, turned upside down.

"I'm fine," Booth replied with a strained smile, dropping his eyes to the menu. She smoothed the linen tablecloth, her head aching.

"Your victim had a degenerative bone disease," she disclosed. "Hodgins is running tests to determine where he was buried… or at least in what kind of soil…" Booth nodded, his eyes drawn to the picturesque beauty beyond the window. Brennan reached out, dropping her hand to his. "The other body… it's a child, isn't it?" She saw his Adam's apple bob when he swallowed, the single jolt of his head signalling his affirmation of her suspicions.

The waiter stepped next to their table, his pencil hovering over his notepad and a smile pulling at his lips. He seemed somewhat intimidated by the darkened gloom that surrounded their table – a sad reality of working with death and murder every day. Brennan's chest clenched, and she cleared her throat.

"I'd like some green tea and the special," she said and the waiter scribbled before turning his eyes to Booth.

"Smoked salmon and a beer, please." When they were alone, Brennan frowned in disapproval and he sighed, shaking his head in a soft warning. "Don't hassle me, Bones, I'm tired." Her mouth closed but her fingers clenched around the table cloth and the disapproval didn't ebb away but rather intensified as he continued to stare at the thickening snow.

"Can we talk?" she asked, tentative and softly pressing. He blinked, the conflicting emotions brought forth as a result of his job disappearing in an instant. He pulled a mouthful of air into his lungs, his fingertips running along the edge of the flower centrepiece without meeting her gaze. He didn't say no, so she assumed it was enough of a response for her to continue. "I've been thinking about our status recently… well… today… and while I am not the type of woman to leap into something quite illogical I think we should rethink our relationship plans and put some kind of… label… on what we are to each other…"

Booth swiped his tongue over his lips.

"You're everything to me. What more do you need? Do you want to get married?"

It was perhaps the most unromantic attempt at a proposal Brennan had ever heard, and the lack of emotion spoken stung. She gasped. "No! God no…" she replied, not certain that she _didn't_ want to marry him but definitely certain that she was not going to accept a less than perfect proposal – and sitting in a cheap and cheerful restaurant in D.C. did not constitute as romantic.

"Well, okay then," Booth said, sounding neither elated or disappointed. "So what label do you want?" It was as though she were picking out a pair of shoes and couldn't decide what ones she wanted. There was no heartfelt emotion, no sweeping, dramatic glances filled with love. He instead focused his attention on the beer that was set before him while she stared into the coloured depths of her green tea.

It had taken most of November for them to get their relationship back on track and as the month ate into December, it felt almost as though they were back into a relatively good place. The sex was amazing, the conversation was rarely dull and if only she'd picked a less emotionally strained time to broach the subject, she might have been feeling numbly happy at Booth's 'marriage' request or rather, suggestion.

No. She wouldn't. She wasn't a traditionalist or a romantic but she _did_ want the grand gesture romance and the 'I can't live with you' proposal. Why did she have to mention it right in the middle of a draining case. Right after the call from his SAC – when he felt so emotionally torn from hearing that a six year old girl was dead.

"Booth?" she said, her mouth drawn into a wince. He turned his flicking gaze on her now, his fingers tight around his beer as though it were his saviour. "This might be a really, _really_ inappropriate time and I know my timing as always been a little bad… but… fuck…" she never swore, "I think I'm pregnant."

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Please review! Plus, everything will be explained in the next chapter!


	25. Greatest Fear

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Not at all. Awww.

**Rating: **T.

**A/N: **The course of true love never did run smooth. It definitely hasn't for Brennan and Booth. I want reviews.

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She was asleep when he reached her apartment at seventeen minutes past one.

Only the newly washed, silken strands of her hair peeked from above the blanket which she'd pulled against her, held by a tight, knuckle whitening fist that hadn't relaxed, even with sleep.

From the doorway he watched her for a long, passing moment where he heard only the soft whisper of her breath as it brushed against the fresh cotton pillowcase. Normally he was filled with such joy when he silently observed her – but tonight he was filled with a gnawing anxiety that he couldn't share with anyone, especially not her.

In the past few months, since she was shot, he'd come to a stark almost frightening realisation that the world and its people were vulnerable and never safe. Even if he could somehow ensure she never met another criminal in her life, she could be hit by a truck or be struck down by a disease.

It had scared him so much, earlier, when Romany had called with news of another body and an foreboding prediction that there would probably be more. As he'd sat in the restaurant, listening to her talk, as she voiced her own need to seal something between them, he'd detached himself because each time he looked at her, sweet and sometimes naïve, he wanted to protect her. Impossibly. There was simply no way to ensure she would never be taken from him.

Her lovely eyes would one day no longer see him and her heart would not feel love because she'd be dead. What would happen then? How could he be anything but afraid when he felt such deep, loyal love for her? They'd been through an emotional eternity of grief, leaning on each other and sometimes making it worse but as December was firmly established on the calendar, they'd closed the gap and the chasm that had once separated them had become a little brook. They were back in each others arms and he hated that, with each passing investigation, the fear of losing her rooted itself deeper and deeper into his psyche until he was almost delirious with fear.

Last week he'd woken in the middle of the night drenched in sweat and gripped with panic, his heart cold and pounding, his fingers numb with dread as he'd searched the empty sheets, blindly searching, only to find that she'd gone to the kitchen for a glass of water.

And as the murder case he worked on now got darker and drearier the worry that distracted him had caused such hurt in her eyes when he'd asked with such disregarding blasé if she wanted to get married. Her hesitating 'hell no' had been a mixture of confused disbelief and aching pain.

Did he want to marry her? God, yes. He'd gladly call her his wife – if only he could erase the fear. Would he ever accept the careful balance of life? Probably not. He had never loved another woman like he loved Temperance Brennan.

And now he was seized with a different kind of panic. If she was pregnant he had another infinite love to contend with. How could he protect his baby? He couldn't protect the one that had died in her womb…

Crouching at the edge of the bed, he stroked her temple, watching as her eyes danced behind her lids and her lips parted, subconsciously aware of him. He had always loved her reaction to his touch – whether she was awake or asleep. And tonight was no different.

So vulnerable and so fragile, he wanted to cocoon her in safety, to ensure that the foetus they had created together was protected. He wanted to tell her how much he cared. How much he loved her. But he'd acted like such an ass, earlier, excusing himself from the restaurant and walking around the city in a snow coated daze.

How had she gotten pregnant? They never made an effort to use protection because after her passionate refusal of ever having another baby, he'd assumed she was on her own birth control. A foolish assumption on his part. But it wasn't him who didn't want a child. He was exhilarated at the prospect of watching a baby grow within her. His baby.

Pressing his cheek to the bed, he suspected it was the particularly active night a few days after her belly-dancing routine when he'd followed her to the gym that had gotten her pregnant. He'd helped her practice her self defence moves which had turned into a sweaty and lengthy sex session on the mats which started with him licking every inch of her body until she practically begged him to be inside her.

He stroked her cheek now and her breathing hitched. He suspected she was awake but far from prepared to forgive his typically manly show of denial, earlier.

"I love you," he said to her expressionless features. "You've got my head in a mess, Bones. I've been going crazy learning how damn hard it is to love. I'd say I'm a fairly worldly man… I've seen plenty of things. Few of them good. I've watched people die, seen women lose their husbands and watch men reduced to nothing when they lose their wives. I'm gripped with fear, now, Temperance. I've got a phobia of being alone," he sighed. "Not alone… no… without you. I'm out of my mind in love with you and if I lost you I don't know how I could cope. I don't even know if I could."

He prised her hand from her blanket, smoothing her slender fingers out, aligning the soft digits with his own.

"I can't believe how much I've fallen for you. Or how much my 'single man' life has been turned into something else. What we've been through together, some couples don't go through in twenty years of marriage. But then… most men wouldn't let their wives be gunned down…" he heard himself sigh, felt the eternal guilt tug at his heart. "I've been distracted because I don't know how to handle love. I'm a bit of an amateur, really. But then, I know you are too so…" he chuckled a little, linking his fingers with hers, now. "I'd marry you tomorrow, Bones. Now. This minute. But I can't say I won't spend every day worried that I'll lose you. I just… can't." He passed his lips over her knuckles, pressing a tentative kiss there.

She shifted beneath the blanket, her eyes parting.

"Come to bed," she whispered. "I'm cold…"

She didn't say anything else and he didn't especially need her to. Perhaps he couldn't protect her from death. But he could keep her warm and for now, it would have to be enough.

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I want Booth and Brennan to get married.

Oh well…


	26. Soaring High

**This is Life**

**Disclaimer: **Oh, little ole me owns nothing.

**Rating: **M.

**A/N: **I am so pushing my luck with the rating on this one, but if you read the MA version you'd probably realise this is nothing. Anyway, review!

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She was chalky pale and sullen as she emerged from the bathroom, her tousled hair scraped back from her face, dark shadowing circles ringing her eyes. She looked grim, her arms hanging by her side, the folded paper instructions for her home pregnancy test peaking from the pocket of her cotton robe.

He set his newspaper aside, the aromatic cup of steaming Brazilian coffee no longer holding the same appeal as it had before. Her expression spoke in volumes. It was not good news. But then it felt as though every moment of euphoria was tarnished by unwelcome thunder clouds.

"You're not pregnant… right?" he said, wanting to break her gaze, wanting to look at the table, anything that would ensure he didn't have to witness the aching bleakness within her eyes.

"No," she said, dropping into the chair opposite him, her palms pressed against the dark oak, fingers spread as she passed her thumbs over her perfectly trimmed, smooth and subtly polished nails.

"No you're not pregnant or no, I'm wrong?" he asked, burning his tongue as he swallowed a mouthful of piping coffee. Wincing, Booth shoved the cup aside, straightening his tie with a damp, slightly trembling hand. Brennan blinked, numbly dazed.

"No you're wrong…" she confirmed, lifting her hands and pressing the tips of her fingers to her tired eyes and he noticed the distinct tremble of her own muscles as she pinched the bridge of her nose, twice, before sighing. "I guess I'm in shock…" she admitted, her fists clutching her unruly hair as she drew an unsteady breath into her lungs. "I suppose I knew…" Brennan continued, her eyes shining with the lustre of flawless diamonds. "But when something is confirmed… almost beyond a shadow of doubt… it's not possible to deny it anymore." Booth heard her voice as it rose an octave, heightened by her unbound emotions.

"Did you want to deny it, Bones?" he asked with the tentative query that was spoken so softly that she almost wondered if he were asking her directly or merely musing aloud. Clearing her throat, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts her mind barely registering that she was already fifteen minutes late for work and she hadn't even showered, yet.

"Maybe," she confessed. "I did _not_ want another baby. I explained this before. My own stupidity led me down a path of condemnation. When I told you… I did so because you should know, not because I wanted to pick out pastel colours for a nursery…" her voice trailed, lost amidst the bitter twang with which she spoke. There was no doubt in his mind that she was not rejoicing. A spear-ended spike of hurt tore through his heart.

"I see," he said, straightening in his chair.

"Do you?" she laughed without humour. "Fuck, Booth, we lost a child less than three months ago. We've _just_ got into a happy place…" her eyes welled, her fingers digging into the flannel robe and he was certain her nails were cutting into her skin. He reached out, smoothing the tension away, much in the same way he ironed wrinkles from his dress shirt or straightened out the covers on the bed.

Like wrinkles, her fears softened with each stroke of his fingers over her palm.

"I feel like we keep switching places in this game we're playing, Bones," he said, work-roughened fingertips tracing slow circles over her skin, each swipe made her burn, mostly because she was not familiar with the kind of human companionship he provided. She'd been so used to fighting her own emotional battles and then he waltzed into her life with all the flair and dramatics of a wild, Spanish dance. Their love affair had been tempestuous with heartbreaking, soul destroying trials and a romance fuelled by the kind of passion people yearned to have.

"I don't understand…" she sighed, having no energy to analyse, to wonder at the illusiveness of his statement.

"One minute you're having doubts, then me, then you… it's like we're running around chasing our tails instead of having the courage to embrace what we have. We agreed, the night we had dinner at the French restaurant in _summer_ that we'd tell everyone about our relationship. Yet we've been slinking into the shadows as though we have something to be ashamed of. Who knows? Your work colleagues?" Brennan sighed, thinking of her college friends, the people who she'd trusted implicitly that were unaware of who she was and who she was with. It was a betrayal to Booth. A betrayal to herself. "You're pregnant. Fine. We love each other, Bones. We're financially stable and I'm certain beyond a doubt that we'll provide a good environment for a child."

The longer he spoke, the easier the realisation became. Yet, in the darkest recesses of her heart, not so easily persuaded, an underlying doubt niggled at her mind as she excused herself from the table and delved into the shower, immersing herself in the billowing steam and the pungent aromatherapy shower gel she owned.

As her adrenaline coursed through her veins she was torn between the 'fight and flight' element of her psyche. She wanted to conquer her fears, remind herself every day that while she'd lost her parents the same was not inevitable for the baby she was carrying. A stronger, more resounding corner squealed with fear and Brennan wanted nothing more than to shy away from the entire situation.

Soaping her body, she heard the distinctive click of the bathroom door and sensed him as he moved around the bathroom, checking his immaculate reflection in the mirror before he prepared to leave for the morning. He hummed jubilantly, somewhat braver than her when it came to matters of extreme, mind-blowing importance.

"Hey, Bones," he called, knocking the glass screen with his knuckles. She started, a soapy hand falling against wall. "Can you come here, please?" She sighed, thick white suds snaking over her body, foam clumped in her hair. He probably wanted her to confirm that his chosen tie was nice or, in a typically egotistical Booth way, require a compliment of his sexual desirability.

Sliding the screen open, she stepped unto the mat, her eyes squeezed shut. "I need a towel," she said, her hand searching blindly.

"Wait," Booth replied, brushing a downy cotton towel over her eyes, brushing away residual suds that clung to her lashes. She blinked, momentarily blinded, and became aware of the air whoosh from her lungs in a long, sharp exhale when she felt an immediate warm, wet tongue lave at her nipple, coaxing the little bud into a tightened point.

"Booth…" she whined, a pointed throb aching between her thighs. "I'm so late for work…" her protests fell on deaf ears, for his nimble fingers massaged her other breast, moulding the malleable flesh into his palm, stroking his thumb across the rosy nipple, circling the areola as the darkened skin puckered at his command.

"Then you'll just have to be a little later, won't you…" There was no hint of an actual question when he spoke. He merely stated the fact of a situation she was powerless to resist.

His highly agile tongue played havoc with her breast, curling around her nipple, provoking her clitoris to a hardened bud to aching nerves, waiting for hot, pulsating release. She was amazed at the biology of it. How could he suck and nip on her breast and produce such a fevered response elsewhere in her body?

Brennan's hand reached for his pants, stroking the hardened length of his erection inside the silken wool of one of his expensive suits. She knew if she didn't unzip him soon he'd have to explain a fairly embarrassing stain to his dry cleaner.

"You respond to me in ways I could never have imagined," he said as she slipped her hand into his fly, her fingers encircling the large circumference of him – the width of which she knew by heart; every ridge. When her fist tightened, he thrust into her palm, his penis a contrast of sensations she could never explain adequately; soft like tissue paper yet harder than reinforced steel.

The smooth rounded tip displayed the smallest hint of his arousal, and the extent of it.

"I cannot help but respond to you," she admitted, arching into the ministrations of his tongue, pursing her lips against the long, languorous laps which with he licked her tender nipple. "You do things to me…" she sighed, her hips rotating in tight, desperate circles when his fingers parted her folds and rubbed around the slick bud, made moist by her own arousal.

Her lips parted, releasing a strangled breath when his fingers slipped inside her, touching places no one else had touched.

Except with Booth.

With Booth everything was touched.

Her hand worked along the length of him, her thumb rubbing tight, hard circles. enticing him with her slow, firm strokes. He groaned her name, his teeth closing around her right nipple, biting, hard enough to induce the smallest glimmer of pain and make her womb contract around his fingers.

When she winced, her head thrown back as she concentrated on the multiple sensations and her own task, Booth soothed the ache, rubbing feather light rotations around her nipple with only the tip of his tongue.

After a long moment, she pressed her back against the wall, parting her thighs and welcoming the hot, hard length of him into her. Her muscles relaxed, permitting him access into the molten depths of her body. Deeper than any person had ever been – providing her the greatest amount of pleasure. She had never been a woman who held much credence in size and she was loathe to admit it – but now that she'd experienced the sweet, torturous arousal of his penis, buried inside, she'd never relinquish it. Never.

He thrust, slow before burying himself to the hilt, a strangled cry falling from her mouth as she squealed his name, the sound echoing inside the airy bathroom as both his hands massaged her heavy breasts, his thumbs teasing the already turgid red nipples to rigid peaks. After four long thrusts into her womb he froze in a prolonged, breathy orgasm that brought her quivering, sweaty body to a climax with him.

"Bones?" he murmured against her shoulder and she grunted, her breathing laboured.

"Hmm?"

"Pregnancy is going to be so good for you. And if it's like this all the time, for me too…"


	27. Depth of Love

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **Shall my dreams of owning multi-million pound characters ever come true? I don't own these particular money-making gems.

**Rating: **M, my little honeys.

**A/N: **I'd fuck Booth in an instant. I really would. But since marriage vows and the fact he ISN'T real seriously impede this plan, I have resorted to writing about Brennan being the lucky lady and me being… so sad. But reviews would make me happy and I'll be tremendously sad if you don't… does emotional blackmail work around here?

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Cellos, he thought, were perhaps the boldest of the stringed instrument, for the sheer depth of its notes when a horsehide bow was passed across its strings vibrated inside his chest, sullen and classic, reverberating throughout the high arches. The very room seemed to throb in the wake of it, matching his dark, brooding mood exactly as his impassive eyes swept across the marble floor, to the spot where she stood, a vision of perfection.

He imagined he would like her hair curled, pinned in intricate and fancy ways with a thousand pins which would defy logic. But watching as she dipped her head in polite courtesy, the smooth column of her neck exposed to his famished eyes, he decided he like the elegancy simplicity of the chignon and the way the muted light caught the reddish stands and made them look almost like golden silk.

Her spine stood straight, a proud symbol of her effortless elegance and he stood against the tall marble column, watching as the string of single diamonds she wore around her neck twinkled, blinking lights of white, lustrous fire. The delicate, sweet incline of her back catching his attention as she twirled on the dance floor, caught in a flurry of satin and chiffon.

She choose black for the occasion, saying that her personality didn't warrant vibrant, outrageous colours. But, as with her hair, we was delighted with her choice, for the subtle, graceful beauty of her dress made her, without hesitation or fear of doubt, the most stunning woman in the entire room.

He admired the soft feminine flare of her hips, the flattering way in which the dress offered her just a hint, a delectable, tantalizing hint of a cleavage. She was classy, and the doctors, professors and a lone FBI agent wanted her. Every single one of them lusted after her curves.

Brennan's lovely feet were clad in satin shoes that curled around her ankles, and offered him a glimpse of the long, lovely leg that was hidden behind layers of satin and chiffon.

Her boss, uncharacteristically cheerful, commented on her loveliness which she accepted with a rose-tinged blush and a modest 'thank you' that made his heart swell with pride for that woman, the image of pure, wonderful beauty, was all his. And while he should have blamed his sentimentality on alcohol fuelled emotions, he could not. For since arriving at the prestigious black-tie dinner, he had touched nothing but lemonade, fearing that his memory of her would be tarnished. He wanted her to remain vivid in his mind for as long as he lived.

Dr Goodman released her, spinning her on toes right into his arms, where she seemed to melt into his embrace, their bodies meshed in ways only lovers could be. And for once, neither of them cared.

"You smell so good," Booth murmured into her hair, his fingers splayed across the curvature of her spine. She shifted her hips, nudging her slender frame closer, breast to thigh.

"So do you," she replied, her own fingers caressing gently at the nape of his neck. "And you've been watching me. Staking your claim. But don't worry, not a single man has propositioned me for a date or more all night." She sounded far from disappointed, and behind him, a flurry of scarlet red breezed by; Angela in the arms of the resident bug-guy. She was smiling, her lips matching the colour of her dress exactly.

"Men," Booth said, turning back to Brennan, "understand the very simple concept I have laid down for them." Temperance lifted a fine eyebrow toward the roof, the tell-tale hint of a smirk toying at her lips.

"What's that then?" she asked, desperately aware of the heady masculinity that radiated from his body, hot and pulsating. It never took long before the chemistry between them sizzled like lithium dropped into water. She already craved the taste of his lips and she trembled, recalling the saccharine promise that came from his lips earlier.

"The concept is this," he continued, his thumb grazing her shoulder blade as he spun her, "if any man tries to touch you, I will break his arms. Both of them. Then, when I have caused sufficient pain to his upper limbs I will take disturbing pleasure in breaking his legs, starting with his knees. I think I radiate this kind of menace…" his voice lowered, torn between soft affection and rough arousal. "Fear not, Bones," he whispered against the shell of her ear, evoking a head-to-foot tremble that shuddered through her body. "Every man in this room wants you. All of them. Even Hodgins and he's got a boner for Angela."

Brennan's eyes widened into rounded globes, her irises almost matching the fine sparkle of her diamonds. "That's so vulgar, Booth," she scolded, swatting his chest, her fingertips lingering long enough on the solid wall of him to notice the thumping rhythm of his heartbeat; a sure sign of his mutual arousal.

"It's true, he does have a serious thing for her. But I'm not so much concerned with that as I am with your eyes…" he narrowed his own, peering into hers with all the concentration of a psychic staring into a mystical ball.

"What?" she asked, slightly unnerved. His lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile.

"When you're horny," he whispered, "like now, your eyes always widen as though someone has just told you the sun is falling from the sky and we're all going to be incinerated in an instant. You look at me, Bones, as though you want me to fuck you like it's your last hour alive…"

Unlike the soft, understated blush she'd displayed when Goodman complimented her, her cheeks burned crimson, now. "You play dirty, Booth," she hissed, speechless to find herself backed into the cool, smooth length of the marble column, her nipples hardening in response to the cold. Damn! He'd think it was him. She knew he would.

"Dirty game, Temperance? Is that a proposition?" he seemed to mull this over, his lips parting as he sucked cinnamon and spice scented air into his lungs. "Let the games begin." With the deft movements of a sleuth and a sniper, his hand passed across the soft curve of her breast, provoking a jerk from her hips as he released her. "Too shy for public sex, Bones?" he asked and she cleared her throat, unnerved by the brazen and raw sexuality that oozed from every pore of his over confident, self assured body.

"No," she said with stiff determination, turning her back on him and striding across the ballroom, dipping her head in polite acknowledgment of Dr Preston, Professor Green, Dr Narayan and someone she didn't actually know but felt certain offered a great amount of money to the Jeffersonian every year.

She couldn't concentrate, the familiar thrill of Booth surging through her body as she sunk into the darkened shadows surrounding the high French doors, almost slipping behind the long velveteen drapes completely, she tried her best to remain unobserved, ensuring that all eyes were averted before she turned the handle, stepping out into the frigid December night, her bare shoulders feeling the effects of the temperatures immediately.

The gardens beyond the luxurious hotel were white and flawless, a blanket of snow catching the overhead moonlight and as she stood at the edge of the sweeping stone balcony, Brennan imagined that the world were covered in icing and that she were in an enchanted land, a million miles away from work functions, honking cars and science.

Just when she thought he might not have the courage to carry through the game he'd started, a heavy jacket fell across her shoulders, the perfect and somewhat sly excuse for him to take her subtle cleavage into his hands, testing the weight of her breasts as though he were gauging the weight of gems. She ought to have known he wouldn't turn down a challenge.

"So, Bones," he said, the tip of his finger tracing the milky softness of her breast where her silken dress gave way to bare, tempting flesh. "How deep do you want me?"

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EVIL LAUGH

How deep DOES she want him?

Reviews keep the devil in my soul at bay.


	28. Uncoated Pleasure

**Title: **This is Life

**Rating: **M and for those in the loop, MA (which really is much more graphic than this one…)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of these characters.

**A/N: **If you like the place where Booth and Brennan have sex in this chapter, then it's owed to Jaed for she pitched the idea to me. Thanks a lot, babe, I really enjoyed writing it – plus it probably lengthened my chapter for I had to get them from the balcony to… well… you know. Thanks.

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Her body quaked in response to the question.

The presence of him hung in the air, layered with sparking, electric sexuality and shining with the sensual promise of an orgasm that would start where he touched her and radiate everywhere, including her toes.

Within the ballroom there was a flurry of activity, Christmas music and jubilant singing, and as Booth's fingers caressed the length of her arms as if tuning an instrument, she was delightfully relieved that he'd tossed the proposition down – for she hated Christmas music, she hated singing and most of all, she hated being ogled by men she didn't and never would, have interest in.

Booth smiled, watching how her lips tightened in soft defiance of him. He clicked his tongue, his eyes sensual as he blinked with the slow laziness of a person who was not in a hurry. Despite standing on a snowy balcony and possibly moments away from discovery, he didn't rush.

"You have that stiff look of someone who doesn't want to feed my ego," he quipped, his thumb pausing over the fairly steady pulse at her wrist. "And you're almost convincing me that you don't want it, Bones," he whispered, shifting towards her, his hard erection brushing her hip. "If it weren't for this…" His hands grazed her nipples, harder than bullets, straining against her dress. She released a breathy sigh, her hands reaching out for him, the façade dropped in the instant he touched her.

He smiled, his fingers moving over the fine hair at the nape of her neck, drawing in for a tentative, almost tormenting kiss that stilled the oxygen in her lungs and left her craving the sweet slip of his tongue. But he held their somewhat perfunctory kiss for a long moment, touching only the corner of her mouth with his tongue, and her lips parted in startled response to the searing dagger of heat that ravaged through her body.

Running his hand over the smooth line of her back, urging her to arch into him, he felt her tongue move against his, tasting him as she vividly recalled what things his tongue could do to her body, starting with her breasts, which he would offer plentiful attention to, then her thighs, where he would taste the vanilla scented skin there and just when she was unaware, he'd thrust his tongue inside her.

Her hips jerked in response to her thoughts, her fingers digging into his arm.

"Getting ahead of yourself, Bones?" he asked, his palm grinding against her malleable breast. Her lips parted, a semi-moan drawn from her chest, brought forth by his erection against her thigh and the raw sexuality he unleashed on her. Perhaps it was the early states of her pregnancy but she was insatiable and lurid thoughts of his penis flashed through her mind.

"Oh God…" she whispered, cupping him through his pants. "Booth…"

His chuckle sounded guttural, almost strained as he bunched the chiffon and satin in his hands, his fingertips grazing the back of her thighs, his palm encountering the silken material of her underwear, and he looked almost disappointed. "You're making this difficult, Bones," he said with soft censure, stroking her through the silk. She moaned. "Meet me," he whispered, "at the coatroom in ten minutes."

And he released her, leaving her against the balcony, breathless, unreleased and wallowing in the scent of her own arousal as he slipped back into the ballroom with calm collected composure of a man who had, perhaps, been outside for a cigarette, not winding his sexually charged lover to a tight, pre-orgasmic point.

"Fuck…" she whispered to herself, pressing her palms against her fevered cheeks. "Bastard…"

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Climbing the sweeping staircase to the first floor of the hotel, Brennan padded along the corridor, determined to maintain her cool composure and not reveal to anyone who might pass that she was seeking sexual release.

No one did pass, however, and the corridor remained eerily silent as she approached the coatroom at the far end.

She frowned, glancing behind, half expecting to find the attendant to come after her. She heard nothing.

Slipping inside, Brennan frowned, encountering only darkness. "Booth…?" she whispered, somewhat intimidated by the darkness. There was no answer, but she felt his hands on her, touching everywhere, unzipping the fine line of her dress. The whispery material pooled at her feet, and she jerked, his lips touching the base of her spine. "Booth… where is the coat attendant?" she asked, her voice a breathless whisper lost in amidst the wintry coats.

"It's amazing," he growled, dipping his tongue into the soft dimple in her back, "what forty bucks and charming smile can get you." She pressed her hands to the walls, recalling that the room was frightfully small and if Booth was going to take her here, they'd better be careful not to leave stains on someone's expensive wool coat.

"And what does forty bucks get you, Booth?" she asked, her body throbbing as he reached up, fondling her breasts through a layer of fine lace.

"A coat room for twenty minutes and a hot fuck. Be still, Bones," he commanded and her spine stiffened as he peeled her underwear off, pressing a tentative kiss to the swell of her ass. She exhaled, the breezing touch creating a throb between her legs. He seemed to sense this, for his fingers parted her, his mouth between her thighs as she loomed above him.

When he'd orally brought her close to orgasm, he removed his clothes, laying her down against a pile of coats and sinking himself into the wet, hot depths of her body, covering her mouth with his hand when she parted her lips and cried out his name, moaning and breathless, her body painfully high from the long, nimble ministrations of his tongue.

As he thrust, she felt her walls quiver around him, tightening as her body coiled, seeking release, almost craving it. She was in agony as he prolonged her orgasm, rigidly still inside her until she thrust her own hips, burying him all the way. It brought them both to edge, bringing forth a surge of electricity and white-hot sensations that rippled through her womb, making every part of her, including her nipples, throb.

Booth sucked the hardened point of her left nipple into his mouth, sending a second wave of ecstasy through her, and this time, even his hand over her lips was not enough to muffle the cry of pleasure that started and ended with a long, breathless draw of his name.

As he sagged against her, still consumed by the darkness that surrounded him, Booth chuckled. "So that's how deep you wanted me, then?" he asked and she embraced him, steadying his quaking shoulders, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"Do you think," she whispered, ignoring his question, "when we get home, you can spend all night that deep?" His penis gave a jerk in response and she smiled, satisfied that he wasn't the only one who could inducing a sexual stirring.

"Bones?" he said, his thumb circling her nipple. "We still have five minutes. I'm going to fuck you again…"

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I just wrote this in record speed before I have to go and check in fifty million people at the hotel, so while you're enjoying this, pity me, because today is going to be MEGA shit.


	29. Scientific Emergency

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. I think the writers would die in their chairs, if they seen this.

**Rating: **Oh… such an M.

**A/N: **All I can say is review and maybe even tell me what you want.

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"I think I drank _way_ too much…" Angela sighed, massaging her temples with stiff fingers, her eyes closed. "If I look at the light, I heave. Like I'm going to vomit. Which really, _really_ sucks because I should be deliriously happy…" Angela was a woman who didn't retain gossip well, and despite her obvious suffering, she was keen to expose the secret that bubbled inside her chest.

Brennan uncapped her pen, maintaining a calm composure so as not to alert her friend to her own eagerness to know. Sometimes Temperance could be as much a gossip as Ange.

"Really? Why's that, then?" she asked, scrawling her name at the bottom of two reports, due to Goodman's office in thirty minutes. If Angela was going to spill some sordid sex scandal, she'd have to do it soon.

"Jack doesn't drink much, you know," she said and the statement sounded random and something of an anti-climax, until she hurried to continue. "Which turns out to be a great thing, because when he's sober, he pays particular attention to sexual gratification in a woman…" Her eyes opened now, twinkling in ways that only a newly satisfied girl's eyes can.

"You slept with Hodgins?" Brennan asked, recalling Angela's anecdote about kissing the doctor. It seemed fitting and somehow the unlikely pair just clicked. To Brennan it were like slotting the pieces of a puzzle together, stepping back and admiring the sheer craftsmanship of it. Angela and Hodgins somehow _worked_. It defied logic…

"No," Ange said and not sounding at all remorseful of this fact. "But there was plenty of touching and I am _not_ disappointed with what I've learned so far…" the naughty insinuation hung in the air, unspoken and quite unnecessary for Brennan could easily imagine what kind of touching had ensued once they departed from the Christmas Gala.

She opened her mouth to comment, to express in some way the happiness she felt for Angela. But her friend, headache or not, was not a woman who would miss an opportunity to gather secret scandals and lurid stories. "You fucked Booth last night, didn't you…" she said, crossing her legs and reclining back against the sofa, her lips a fine, knowing smirk.

"Excuse me?" Brennan glared, pen hovering above her page, frozen.

"Don't play coy, Bren," Angela scolded, her eyebrow raised in a fine arch. "Last night, when I was wandering around, admiring pieces of stunning art, genuine stuff too, I noticed a rather dishevelled but definitely sexed up Temperance leaving the cloak room on the first floor. By the way, sweetie, post coital blush suits your skin tone perfectly. It's better than cosmetics any day…"

Brennan was blushing at that moment, wondering how many others had observed the clandestine meeting between them and if, God forbid, Angela had heard anything from within the tiny room. Struggling to form a sentence, she sighed.

"That obvious, huh?" she dropped her chin to her hand, tapping her fingertips against her cheek as she contemplated the blatancy with which she and Booth had thrown caution to the wind. It was lunacy – a brand of craziness that derived from never being sexually satisfied and always, _always_ being ready for more.

"Honey, you've been dripping with that 'just got laid' look for days! What's brought on this horniness?" Angela's eyes were rounded and intrigued, a second flush of warmth passing over Temperance's cheeks as she lowered her gaze to the reports beneath her elbows. "Bren? Has our hunky federal agent turned you into a sex slave?"

Brennan sighed, a strand of hair falling over her eyes. "No," she said, "quite the opposite. I've been more than willing. I feel… Angela I'm not familiar with being so sexual. I'm not sure if I can play the sultry vixen…" Angela giggled, shaking her head.

"Bren, sweetie, is he complaining? I don't imagine…" Brennan pushed her chair back, striding across the office, peering through the glass into the laboratory beyond. "Are you alright?" Angela asked, her tone softening into kind concern. The clock was ticking and Brennan needed to be in Goodman's office shortly then straight up to archaeology for the most boring meeting in history.

"I'm just checking that we're alone… last time I thought I was going unobserved my best friend was standing in the corridor witnessing everything!" she hurried off into a tangent, her pulse rising a few notches as she paced the space behind her desk, pausing to rearrange an ancient Aztec vase that had become the centrepiece for her cabinet. "Angela… I have hormones raging through my body, never content with being dormant and driving me wild! I wake up at two am, ready to pounce on him…"

"Everyone gets raging hormones, sweetie. It's one of the best things about being a woman…" Angela winked, chuckling to herself, probably recalling Jack. Brennan felt almost as though she were intruding in a private, sexually charged moment.

"No… Ange… it's because…"

The door swung open and Booth stepped in, dressed in dark blue jeans that rode low on his hips, a blue hooded sweater. He was smiling, rubbing his hands together. "Bones, we got a lead on the bastard, lets go…"

Brennan frowned, reclining back in her chair, raking her gaze, almost involuntarily over the length of his lithe, defined frame that seemed to radiated the kind of raw sexuality that made wet, urgently requiring release. She held her breath, willing her desire to subside long enough for her to concentrate on what he was saying.

"Go?" she asked dumbly. "I can't go anywhere. I have a meeting with Goodman… What lead?" Booth and his SAC had spent three weeks hunting down the bastard responsible for murdering what had now accumulated to six people. Two days ago, he'd captured a suspect, who was being held for questioning and as far as Brennan understood it was a case of waiting until the guy cracked under the pressure of their interrogation.

"Goodman knows you have to come. Let's go, the car's waiting…" She rubbed her forehead, pushing her chair back again and shrugging at Ange. "Whatever you ladies were discussing is going to have to wait, I'm afraid." He sounded genuinely apologetic, taking Brennan's elbow and steering her towards the door. "Romany is freaking out, he said it wasn't really necessary for you to have a look at it _right_ now but I think there is, so I defied his wishes and came to collect you."

Brennan blinked as he practically frog-marched her outside, waiting until the doors hissed behind them until she spoke. "It's necessary for me to see _what_? You can send anything to the Jeffersonian and someone will look at it here…"

Booth was shaking his head, firm and sullen, his features adapting the dark brooding look that told her he was in a no nonsense mood. "Not this," he said, unlocking his SUV. "I don't even know how we would package this to be sent…" He slipped the key into the ignition, the engine roaring to life as Brennan strapped herself in. "It's not something I'd want to FedEx, anyway."

Speeding along the highway with his usual lack of road safety, he mumbled about needing expert assistance at once.

"I thought you had a guy in custody? I thought…" Brennan said, watching his face, drinking in the handsome ruggedness of him and remembered their dangerous, liaison in the closet. Her cheeks flamed at the memory of his hot wet tongue, tasting her as though she were fine wine.

As the urban city thinned to suburban and finally becoming a vast length of infinite white, rural fields that undulated steadily, almost the exact colour of the sky, Brennan frowned. "How did you find anything in all this snow?" she asked, slipping from the car as he killed the engine.

"I didn't find it in the snow," he said, taking her wrist. "Follow me, it's just a little ways over here." Crisp, freshly fallen snow crunched beneath their boots as they plodded through a blanketed field, deep prints left in their wake. She noted that there were already two tracks, one set heading in their direction and the second in the opposite direction.

"Do you think you have enough for a conviction?" she asked, the wet flakes soaking through her jeans, causing a icy shiver to creep along her spine.

"Yes," Booth said, his voice rigid with certainty. "The bastard has guilty written all over him. Careful, Bones, there's a dip in the terrain, just here…" she heeded his warning, allowing him the small privilege of assisting her over the gap as the field sloped about thirty feet, and a long, narrow building stood, desolate and dark, a sombre reflection of the wintry afternoon.

"Is this where he killed them…?" Brennan asked a hesitant trepidation seeping into her voice as she observed the intricate grey stonework, the slated tiles, coated with powdery snow.

"No," Booth said, descending the slope with the carefulness of someone who understood the risks of icy hills. "Watch your step…"

Easing the heavy oak door open, sending a flaky cascade of snow tumbling down around them, Booth gestured for her to enter, watching as the tense muscles of her shoulders bunched as she took a step over the threshold, sucking a deep breath into her lungs. She smelt spice in the air, and holly. Berries, perhaps. All the scents of Christmas.

"Someone's been living here recently," she observed, running her eyes over the antique oak furniture, the half burned essence stick that was the source of cinnamon. "Okay," Temperance said at last, deciding that the building posed no immediate threat. "What is it that you can't FedEx?" She couldn't smell death or decay and the immaculate décor did not suggest a sinister secret.

She startled when his hands fell upon her hips, not with the same professional demeanour he'd been showing just seconds earlier. His touch prickled at her skin. "This," he said, taking her hand and pressing her opened fingers to the rigid line of his penis. "FedEx generally don't like it when you send genitalia… most courier services operate a 'no penis' policy, actually…" his breath was hot against her neck, and her whole body stiffened, except for her hand, which relaxed around him.

"I'm supposed to be in a meeting…" she whined, "and you dragged me from work, drove me to the suburbs and all for what…?" Booth smiled against her neck, his tongue touching the edge of her jaw.

"Sex, Bones, what else? I thought my plan was very carefully orchestrated," he slipped his arms around her waist, looping his fingers beneath her belt, deftly unbuckling her. Temperance sighed, dropping her eyes to the sofa, the immaculate surroundings.

"Where are we?" she asked, leaning into him as his palm brushed over the torso, hardened by her early states of pregnancy.

"It's on the market to be sold and I cut a deal with the estate agent that I'd like some time to look around," he ground his hips into her ass, the length of his shaft insistent and urgent. "I'm getting good at finding these illicit places to fuck you, wouldn't you agree, Bones?"

The mention of his 'fuck' promise flooded her with wet nectar. Her clit throbbed in sweet anticipation. "Very good," she agreed, flicking the button of her jeans, wriggling out of her clothes and turning to him, reaching for his buckle, only to find that he clicked his tongue, removing her fumbling fingers with a devious smile.

"We have all afternoon," he said, "and I intend on using our time wisely."

"Why can't we just wait until we get home, Booth, and fuck then? Why organise a meeting under the pretence of work so… ooh…" his tongue passed over the line of her cleavage, dipping into the crevice with a hot, wet lick. She sighed, finding his hair with her fingers, catching the scent of her own arousal, merging with spicy scents of Christmas.

"Don't you find this exciting, Bones?" he asked, slipping his finger into her panties, brushing only the pad of his finger of the tight bud of her clit, dipping into the sticky evidence of her arousal. "Apparently so," he confirmed with a smile in his tone. She moaned, his name filling the air as a purring, husky whisper. "I knew you wouldn't protest… I know you're horny… I saw it the minute I walked into your office."

She was powerless to resist him, seeking the satisfaction that only he offered. Time and time again. The thick, solid length of him inside her, filling her, making her body buzz with need. It was a sweet addiction. Booth had a way, a talent, a certain magic that brought her to the brink of euphoria each and every time he touched her. And when he fucked her – truly fucked her, with the kind of inhibitions that they'd shared recently, he tore beyond the barrier of euphoria and took her somewhere else.

Made her high. A drug,

"Okay," he said, pressing his finger against her clitoris so hard, she bit on her lip and released a moan that filled the room. "I'm going to torture you, Temperance. I'm going to make you so wet and arouse you so much, you'll beg me to give you what you want…" a tremble ran through her body, her fingers reaching out to touch him, to feeling the solid length of his penis against her skin. He made noises of disapproval, snagging her wrist and shaking his head. "No way, Bones," he said, "that would be too easy."

She whimpered. "Please…"

"Get undressed," he commanded, "I think I'll start with my tongue."

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And so he shall, you have my word.


	30. Family Secrets

**Title: **This is Life

**Rating: **This story is M rated. I think this chapter is a T.

**Disclaimer: **I'm beginning to feel like I own these characters, but alas, I don't.

**A/N**: I'm cruel, and mean and horrible but you know what, I decided I wanted to take this chapter momentarily away from sex. Apologies, but we were missing angst for a few chapters there…

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Her hands eased into his hair, her thighs parted in eager, torturing anticipation of his tongue, probing and laving, deliciously wet, plundering through crevices and urging her sexuality from within.

The release she sought to desperately was interrupted by his cell phone, piercing the breathless whispers, sounding tantamount to an atomic bomb, exploding by her ear, where his sweater lay, tossed in an abandoned heap. She huffed in frustration, feeling cheated, without, deserted as he reached for his phone, flipping the folds and growling his name down the line.

After a long moment of silence, he blinked, mouthing a silent apology.

"Owen! Hi!" he said, resting on his knees, pinching the top of his nose. "Are you in Philly?" Another pause, and this time, the atmosphere changed, the flexing muscles in his forearms became rigidly still, his eyes lost the pent up arousal, becoming glazed, almost impassive. "Okay," he said at last, dropping his hand from where he massaged his forehead and it was only now that she noticed the tremble in his fingers and the unsteady tone of his voice. "Fine. Thanks…" his gratitude was half-hearted, solemn and it existed purely for reasons of courtesy.

Brennan straightened, automatically aware that their afternoon romp would be called short. "Who was that?" she asked, pulling his sweater around her nakedness, glossy, untidy waves of hair spilling around her cheeks, tousled by his fingers and forgotten in his moment of darkness.

"Owen," he said, his voice lost.

"Who is Owen?" Temperance pressed, sinking to her knees, their bodies so close she could almost hear the rapid, aching thump of his heartbeat as he blinked at her, unseeing, blinded.

"He's my cousin. My dad had a heart attack…" His eyes met hers, a maelstrom of hurt and confusion. Brennan hated bad news because her socials skills lacked the required element of comfort and saying trite, meaningless things. She asked questions that were inappropriate, sometimes bordering on cold. But detachment was what got her through the saddest things in her life.

"Is he dead?" she asked, bracing her hands on his thighs, her thumbs drawing soft circles there as his face contorted at her lack of tact. She didn't apologise because she was not a woman who sugar-coated anything, and if there were arrangements to be made, one of them had to be logical.

"No," he replied at last, heaving a sigh. He looked pained, as though someone had punched the air from his lungs. Brennan tucked her hair behind her ears, clutching the sweater to her breasts with the awkwardness of someone caught in a naughty act with her best friend's husband. She felt as though they'd been wrong, so close to having sex, while Booth's father was hundreds of miles away, ill.

"We'll go tonight," she soothed and he nodded slowly, the macho bravado lost and he looked much like a child who had been abandoned. Brennan sighed, her fingertips brushing along his forehead, stroking through his hair as he leaned into her, seeking the comfort that she provided. It were times like these, she realised, where companionship meant more than the sex. Emotionally he needed her.

Passing his sweater, she reached for her own clothes, getting dressed in silence as she glanced around the room, filled with forlorn. Today would have been wildly charged and combined with her sadness for him, she felt disappointment. The God that Booth so readily believed in had threw them another curve in the road.

The journey to Booth's secret location had been filled with trepidation, the journey back into the city was owned by a different kind of concern. There was a darkness that shrouded them and the silence was deafening – buzzing with unanswered questions and fears. Booth drove with his eyes fixed on the road ahead, not really taking note or paying attention to anyway.

The majestic beauty of the landscape went unnoticed as his SUV speed along the narrow roads before joining the highway, and the myriad of concrete and glass dominated the skyline was again.

The Jeffersonian, with its snowy gardens was an oasis in the middle of a crazy, bustling city. Brennan was sure that's why Booth had begun to feel almost a home, there. Today, though, as he marched along the corridor at her side, there was a stiffness to his posture.

"There you guys are!" Angela called, striding towards them, her lab coat fanned out behind her as her pump clad feet pounded on the floor. "Zach has been trying to reach you… he's-"

"Not now, Ange," Brennan said, stepping into her office and gathering her belongings. She worked with efficiency as she made certain she had everything she needed. "Booth and I have to go to Philadelphia," she muttered vaguely, turning the key in her desk, slipping the tiny fob into her pocket.

"Have you got a lead up there?" Angela asked, glancing at Booth to rested his weight against the doorframe as though he didn't have the energy to hold himself straight. He looked weary, somehow distant and his eyes had taken on a brooding darkness that Angela had come to recognise as not being a good thing.

"No," Brennan said, taking her heavy wool jacket from the coat stand and pulling it over her arms. She had been so aware of the cold, plundering through the snowy field and there was no way she was going anywhere without being wrapped up. "Booth has a family emergency. We'll call as soon as we get back."

She was out the door, slipping her cell phone from her backpack, dialling numbers and making brisk commands down the line, her no nonsense tone in operation the moment a crisis developed. Angela followed behind, her curious nature intrigued. When Brennan snapped into an 'all systems go' mode, it was usually because she was fighting to hide her emotions, to pretend everything would be okay if it was hidden behind a veil of emotional detachment and cool efficiency.

Dropping her hand to Booth's arm she watched how his features changed, almost as if he'd been on another plane, returning to reality. His eyes lightened as he focused on her. "What's happened?" she asked, falling into step beside him as Brennan stormed on, her hands gesticulating with each demand she made. Her voice rose a pitch in disapproval.

"…no planes? It's not even _that_ bad!..."

"My father's in hospital. He had a heart attack earlier this morning," Booth said, the strong, powerful FBI agent reduced to a small boy, fighting a surge of emotions within. Angela felt a stab of sorrow for her friend.

"It'll be fine, sweetie," she said, her fingers tightening. "Besides, with Brennan the Nazi over there, everything will be sorted." Booth smiled a little, nodding his ascent as they paused to watch. "She gets angry when she doesn't get everything her own way." A warm chuckle rose from his chest as he nodded.

"You got that right. I've been on the receiving end of it many a time." Brennan stopped in her tracks, rubber soles squeaking on the tiles, her shoulders tense.

"No," she said, "that's not good enough. What part of emergency do you _not_ understand?" Booth pursed his lips, glancing sideways at Angela who grinned back, shaking her head.

"Do you need me to do anything?" she asked. "Do you have animals or plants that need fed?" He realised that he barely existed inside his apartment these days. He spent the majority of his life in Brennan's bed and when he wasn't there, he was sleeping in cheap motels beneath scratchy covers. Like he would be, tonight.

"No thanks," he said and her hand slipped from his arm. "I have to go…" Angela nodded as he moved off, stopping only when he reached the end of the hallway, before turning back. "By the way," he said, "from what I seen at the party, things are looking good for you and the resident geek, right?" Angela's eyes sparkled, endeared by how Booth noticed her happiness, despite the dark times in his own life. Brennan, she realised, was very lucky to have a man with such a wonderful, kind character.

"Right," she said, dipping her head. "Very good indeed." Booth smiled, the light reaching his eyes for the briefest of moments.

"Pleased for you, Ange." Glancing at his watch, he sighed. "Today is the twenty first," he said. "If I'm not back in time, Merry Christmas." Angela felt sympathy pierce her heart. In a few days, Christmas would arrive and after all the sadness that had tarnished their year, Brennan and Booth wouldn't get any relief from it. Not even at such a festive time.

"Yes," she said. "You too."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Owen Booth was perhaps five years younger than his cousin, and while his facial features had the same chiselled cut, his hair was sandy blond, longer than what was generally acceptable for a government worker. But at first glance, it was apparent that Owen did not work for the government.

In torn jeans and a black t-shirt that was emblazoned with the logo of some dysfunctional rock band, he looked like a computer nerd.

"Seeley," he said, engulfing Booth in a perfunctory hug. "How are you, man?"

"Fine," he replied, perhaps a little terse. "Owen this is Temperance Brennan. Temperance this is my cousin, Owen." After brief, polite introductions, they were led along the corridor, lit by bright florescent lights that made Booth's eyes hurt and his stomach knot. He felt the atmosphere of the sick and needy and it shrouded him, suffocating him, sucking all the happiness from his soul.

"He's awake," Owen was saying, "but he's in pretty bad shape. Dad found him this morning…" Booth was silent, guilt ebbing at his resolve. When was the last time he had spoke to his father? When was the last time he has stopped to contemplate that a man of his father's age was vulnerable? Why couldn't he let bygones be bygones?

His dad had spent his years in the military, passing on his passion for patriotism on to his son. And while Booth was proud of the fire with which his dad fought for his country, he was terrified that certain other traits could be passed on, father to son. Like infidelity.

How many years had his mother put up with her husband's indiscretions with other women? How many nights had he lay awake, listening to his mother's muffled sobs?

As Owen eased the door open, the steady beep of the heart monitor filled his ears, and he paused, eyes downcast and he was suddenly gripped with fear. He could not look up. He couldn't witness his father, strong and proud, reduced to a bed-ridden old man.

Behind him, Temperance slipped her hand into his, squeezing his fingers. Her strength was transferred and he wondered how would she cope with such a situation? Would she look? Of course she would. She would because she didn't believe anything that was true should be hidden. His dad _was_ a bed ridden old man and his weakness was not going to change the circumstances.

Sucking antiseptic scented air into his lungs, his jaw tightened and he looked up, his chest burning when he saw his father, thin and elderly, drowning beneath blue blankets and dwarfed by the hospital gown he wore.

His hair was white and his cheeks gaunt. A shadow of the man Booth had admired as a child. Admired and detested. Admired and feared. There had been so much respect shown towards this old man as he was growing up. Until he became a teenager, filled with opinions and beliefs that a genetic connection were not going to change. His father had been adulterous, lying, unfaithful and Booth found it difficult to accept that his mother had wasted her life on a man who barely loved her.

"Seeley," his father said, his voice raspy, impeded by the pure oxygen that he inhaled. "How are you my boy?" Brennan's fingers flexed around his and he stepped beyond the threshold of the room, blinking slowly.

"I'm fine, dad," he said. "You don't look so good." His father released a cackling laugh, a wheeze catching in his chest.

"You're not as tactful as you once were," he said, coughing twice. Owen passed him a glass of water, sitting in the plastic chair at the edge of his bed. Booth released Brennan's hand, clipping the pages of his chart. "You've been gone awhile, haven't you, Seeley?" his dad said, his tone pointed. Booth glanced up through his lashes, an ache tightening inside his sternum.

"I've been busy," he said with hard determination.

"I understand," his father replied and it was fairly obvious he did not understand this point at all. Or accept it. "How long as it been, anyway? Four years?" Booth replaced the chart, his fingers curling around the iron frame, his knuckles white.

"Mom's funeral," he said. "So dad, you're still smoking…?" A second cackling laugh, followed by a dismissal wave of his bony hand.

"What would you know? I've been off the cigarettes for years." Booth sighed.

"There are traces of banisterine in your system, dad. It's commonly found in cigarettes." His father had eyes that were so similar to his son's that to Brennan, it were almost as though she were looking right into Seeley Booth's soul. The old man blinked, folding his hands over his torso.

"They've been giving me banisterine as a treatment, Seeley," he said at last. "I have Parkinson's disease and I have had for two years. If perhaps you were in contact more often-"

"Please don't…" Owen said, shaking his head. "Seeley is here now, isn't that what matters?" Brennan pressed her hand to Booth's shoulder and the old man caught the moment of soft comfort and responded to it with a sneer.

"No it's not," he spat at his nephew. "My son thinks he can drop by when it suits him. When he gets time…" Booth swallowed.

"You were an adulterous cheat," he growled. "My mother died with a broken heart. My selfishness comes from you, dad, so if you're feeling a little neglected, blame it on the genes." He pushed himself away from the bed, spinning on his heel. "Come on, Bones, lets go."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

I don't know if his family are alive in the series, but I thought I would write about this anyway, because a lot of people have commented that in Woman in Limbo, Booth seemed a little resenting in talking about his family. He made a comment about all parents having secrets. Let me know what you think…


	31. Never Alone

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine – and typing all this takes up valuable time, might I add.

**Rating: **This one is T.

**A/N: **Well, I want to show that there's a lovely relationship brewing here. I love these two as a couple and I hope you all do too. Of course, I review is a good way to let me know…

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"You're not him," Brennan said, passing a steaming cup of coffee that had been infused with nutmeg; a Christmas special. All around the busy mall, people shopped with festive cheer that left a sour taste in his mouth. He should have been celebrating the season with Temperance, not fuming over his father's personality flaws.

"I know," he said, sinking back against the cushiony sofa, watching the mall from outside the glass. "I worry that traits really do pass between family members. And not just physical similarities. My father is not a man I want to accept as my role model in life…" Brennan sipped her coffee, aware that she should be drinking less caffeine and more milk.

"Psychologists and sociologists like to think that these things are true," she said, "and while it may be plausible, I don't put much credence in it. You know that." Booth sighed, offering her a single nod.

"The problem is that I do." He passed the palm of his hand across the darkened stubble that adorned his jaw, his eyes weary. "There were days whenever my mother barely spoke. She played her piano, losing herself in her music because it was easier than accepting that her marriage was a shambles and she was married to a man who lost respect for her years earlier…" He caught a whiff of the nutmeg and inhaled it. "Before she died, mom made me promise that I'd never do to a woman what dad did to her. I never had, but I promised anyway."

Brennan squeezed his hand, crossing her legs, leaning into him. "You're far too noble a man, for that," she said, her eyes reminding him of a depthless lake as she watched him. "Oh," she sighed, lifting her hand to stroke the hardened line to his cheek, her fingertips making soft passes, her thumb brushing across his lips. "Booth," she said, her voice almost a whisper, there was no emotional detachment now. "How can you think so little of yourself? How can you even contemplate that you'd be the same as your father? We aren't defined by our genes, entirely. A person is created by character, not biology."

He smiled, dropping a kiss to the tip of her nose. "Stable, logical Temperance Brennan. You're an astounding woman, do you know that?" She blushed, the warmth of his kiss on her nose left a tingle and she smiled. "Was I too hard on him?" Booth asked, linking his fingers with hers.

"No," she said. "You feel like this because you were hurt as a boy. I think an apology is required, yes, but only once your father accepts that he caused you a lot of pain. If he's upset that you don't visit, he needs to ask himself why." Booth contemplated this for a moment, the spicy coffee lingering within his mouth.

"Owen thinks I should forgive and forget," he said, dropping his head back against the couch, his eyes running over the green garlands that hung from heavy wooden beams above them. The decorations, made of real pine and genuine red berries added a scent that truly brought Christmas alive. He wished he could have enjoyed it.

"Did he say that?" Brennan asked.

"No, but he thinks it. Owen and his father have always had a nice, respectful relationship. He was the much loved Booth Boy." Brennan clicked her tongue with disapproval, shaking her head.

"Well I don't see how a person can be defined by their relationships to their family," she said. "And I don't want you to think that you're going to become an image of your father." He turned his eyes on her, blinking with slow contemplation, as though he were mulling over the words she spoke.

"I never want to hurt you or our baby that way…" he said and her features softened, her hand, her lovely eyes darkening now, not so much aquatic as they were like uncut sapphires. "I hope I am as noble as everyone seems to think…" she smiled.

"You are," she said and there wasn't a hint of doubt in her voice when she did. "I've been hurt and let down so many times in my life, Booth," his hand touched hers, the smallest yet most enormous symbol of comfort that she could find. "My parents were gone, my brother didn't feel he had enough maturity to look after a fifteen year old girl, I was let down by my friends, abandoned by my grandfather until his guilt finally won, and treated like an outcast from society because I thought differently… because I had intelligence…" she turned her hand, her fingers lacing within his. "I wouldn't sacrifice my heart if I wasn't sure you were worth it."

His arm snaked around her shoulder, coffee tipping over the rim of her cup. She ignored it, sagging against him, her head tucked beneath his chin. For the first time in her life, Brennan felt as though she were part of something functional and normal. She was a woman with a man, a lover, a partner, and she was providing a pillar of support just as he had done for her, so many times.

"What do you know about Parkinson's Disease, Bones?" he asked, his lips skimming the top of her head. She shifted back, setting her cup on their table, crossing her arms over her torso before moistening her lips.

"It's a degenerative disease that affects the central nervous system. It may mean that the suffer will lose control of their muscles, posture, speech," she paused, watching how Booth shook his head slowly, willing himself to accept the truth with grace, bravery and decorum. He found it hard to summon courage now, though. "Should I stop?" Brennan asked, her body tilted towards him, a show of support.

"No," Booth said, his jaw firm, determined. "It's best if I know…"

"Most cases are idiopathic… if your father didn't develop it from drug use, head trauma or mutation, it's likely that it _is_ idiopathic, that there's no known cause. In the early stages he would have found a delayed reaction to many things. Later on, he'll probably respond to a question after a lapse of time and in the advanced stages of Parkinson's Disease he'll have… dementia…" she swallowed, sighing. "I'm sorry, Booth. It's a very serious illness. There is no cure."

Booth fixed a tight smile, nodding. "I know," he said. "I guess I can console myself in the knowledge that my dad is old. He's lived a full, healthy life and if it's Parkinson's that gets him in the end, well… something had to, right?" Brennan slipped her hand along his arm, stroking, soothing.

"It's normally me who has to rationalise everything," she noted. "I know you hate doing that, so, if you just want to be sad for awhile, it's okay. Not everyone has to put a rational façade on the things that hurt." Booth felt a low, gruff chuckle rise inside his chest.

"You're rational, even when you're explaining reasons _not_ to be rational. I don't know if I'll ever have you worked out, Temperance," he said, emptying his cup. Brennan smiled and he stilled when she transferred her hand to his cheek again, urging his eyes to meet hers. When they did, there was enough loving emotion swimming there to topple a person.

"It won't be so thrilling, if we had each other sussed, would it?" she asked, her thumb grazing his lashes. He blinked.

"No," he conceded, "I guess it would not." When he leaned back, she saw this badge, clipped to the top of his pants; the golden medallion, topped with a proud eagle. Booth and his job symbolised something brave and honourable. He fought his personal demons with such pride and dignity that she felt immeasurably lucky to have found a man with so much integrity and kindness. He was a achingly sexy man, and while her physical attraction to him knew no limits, she was attracted more to the person he was. To the fact that he was a genuinely good man.

"People like you," she said, "are hard to find." He frowned, musing about this while she gathered her belongings, stuffing her arms into her coat. "You're tired, and we should get some rest. Tomorrow you'll have to go to the hospital again…" Booth closed his eyes, his breath burning his lungs.

Outside, the snow had begun to flutter in thick, wispy flakes, tumbling from a darkened sky that looked, even in the blackness of night, laden with snow.

The weather had not been as bad in Philadelphia as it had in DC, but a few hours of intense blizzards would cause a consistent bout of bad weather in a band from Washington straight to the north.

She pulled a wool scarf around her neck, her hair dotted with icy flakes and she looked angelic, hands in her pockets, eyes raised to the sky. He stood behind her, a flash of brilliant contentment resting on his shoulders as he watched her. For the first time in his life he didn't have to fight life's great battles single-handedly – Temperance would never leave him.

For the first time he truly wasn't alone.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Smile… it's not all bad news!


	32. Beneath Snowy Skylights

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Bones. No infringement intended.

**Rating: **This is rated T.

**A/N: **Well, I'm so glad you guys are enjoying my story. I am enjoying it too, and I cannot believe how long it is now. I have a few plans of what I'm going to do with Brennan and Booth – so I hope you'll all come along for the journey. Anyway, reviews are the joy of my life – so don't forget to drop me a wee message! Thanks!

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"How's your dad?" Brennan asked, her knees drawn to her chest, nose buried in a hardback. Booth tipped the top of the book and she glanced up, smiling.

"He's getting better," he replied, sinking to his knees, taking her hands. "He apologised, finally, for being such an ass and I…" he rested his chin on the top of her knees, his fingers stroking her calves. "I explained that it takes a long time to forgive a man with few moral decencies. But my mother wouldn't want me to feel animosity towards my father. She was a very forgiving woman…"

Brennan unfolded her legs, bending forward to press a kiss to his forehead. "So are you," she said, stroking his cheek. "How are you feeling?" He settled between her legs, sinking his fingers into the hair that she'd allowed to dry naturally, basking in the loveliness of her wavy curls.

He skimmed her lips with his own, her breath caressing his skin as he hesitated, wishing to prolong the sweet anticipation of feeling her mouth against his. Her hands trembled on his shoulders, as he pressed a soft, feather-light kiss to her upper lip, the tip of his tongue darting out to taste her satiny skin.

He heard the quiescent, half-hearted moan of impatience as he fingers danced over the base of his neck, urging him closer. He complied, tilting his head, slipping his tongue between her parted lips, exploring the inner sanctuary of her mouth, distinctly aware of how her tongue met his with an urgent ferociousness.

She slipped off the chair, her weight rested on his thighs as he passed his hands over her back, tracing the rigid line of her spine, delving deeper into her silky hair and pulling her head back, breaking their kiss and exposing the smooth, milky column of her throat to his ravenous mouth.

It seemed as though he were insatiable for Temperance Brennan – seeking the taste and warmth of her like a child would a security blanket. She filled him with an imperative need, an urgency that was only quenched when he tasted her skin, kissed her lips and touched the luscious curves of her body.

Her vocal chords vibrated beneath his lips as she moaned her approval, her nipples straining against the white shirt she wore. He dipped his tongue into her clavicle, tasting the saccharine perspiration that had gathered there, grazing her sternum and pressing his lips to the swell of her breast before pulling away entirely. Her eyes parted, glazed and disorientated, confused and hungry.

"I'm fine now," he said, brushing soft circles around her temples with his thumbs and her nose wrinkled in confusion. Booth laughed, pulling her against his chest, cradling her there as though she were sacrosanct, invaluable. "You asked how I was. I'm fine, now," he explained, his nose buried in her neck, inhaling the addictive scent of her; pure Brennan mixed with arousal. "We're leaving today," he said, dropping a kiss to her shoulder.

"Today? What about your father?" Booth pulled back, painfully aware of her nipples, still straining, still inviting him with cruel deliberation. He was often powerless to resist.

"Tomorrow is Christmas Eve," he said, "and we've been here two days already. I want to go home." His fingers brushed her jaw. "I want to spend Christmas with you." She smiled tightly, almost sad. "Hey…" he said, pressing on her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "What happened?" Brennan shrugged.

"I'm not so good at Christmas," she said, "and I don't want you to be disappointed." Booth laughed, cradling her against him, a low rumble vibrating within his ribs.

"As if…" he said. "You're incapable of disappointing me, Temperance."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"Oh… sweetie!" Angela engulfed her best friend in a tight, enthusiastic hug before turning her attentions to Booth, and doing the same. "How are you guys?" Booth shook off his coat, stomping snow off his boots and smiling. He actually felt happy.

He'd made peace with his father, assured himself that he had no reason to feel guilty, and now, with the Christmas looming on the horizon, he wanted nothing more than to celebrate the season, wrapped up in Brennan's ironic logic. Plus, he felt strangely elated to once again be in the presence of the squints.

Zach descended the stairs from the quarantined lab, grinning at Brennan.

"You're back!" he said, rocking back and forth on his toes, so goofy that Booth wanted, so desperately, to make a mocking jibe. He stayed quiet only because it was Christmas and the kid deserved some reprieve, even if it was only once a year. "How is your father, Agent Booth?" he asked, and the thought he had, moments earlier, filled him with guilt. Zach Addy wasn't a bad kid.

"He's doing better, thanks," Booth replied.

"Hey! G-Man! We're going to Wong Foo's, you coming?" Hodgins asked as the group gathered in the lobby. "Sid's cooking up a festive special and I am _not_ going to miss this." Booth glanced at their faces, each in turn, Brennan's first, then Angela, Zach and Jack and realised he had formed a friendship with the dysfunctional four that was stronger than any he had forged with his Bureau colleagues.

"Sounds good, Jack," he said, clapping the man's shoulder. "You guys go on, Bones and I will meet you there." Brennan stood at his side as her friends left, chatting amongst themselves, and he heard Angela murmur something about 'cute couple' and he almost grinned. "She's the most normal one, you know," he commented when they were out of earshot. Brennan chuckled.

"Yeah, I know. She's great."

Booth slipped his hand into hers. "They're nice, Bones," he said, squeezing her fingers. "Nice friends." Brennan smiled, leaning into him. The lab was silent, and only the security guards at the far end of the building seemed to occupy it. Booth turned to her, slipping his arm around her waist. Above their heads the audio system played Silent Night, a song, so famous that it was generally loathed because there was only a certain amount of times a single song could be played before it became irritating.

Pulling her towards him, he shifted, smiling down at her. "Dancing to a Christmas song is slightly eccentric," Brennan commented, taking his hand, shifting beneath the multi-coloured Christmas lights that were strung above their heads. He smiled, dipping his head in agreement.

"Yes," he admitted, "it is." She spun beneath his arm, rocking against him, the music setting a lulling motion for their rhythm. Booth brushed a strand of cinnamon hair from her cheek, watching her with eyes that twinkled with the lights, and she saw a reflection of her own happiness and contentment, there.

They turned and moved in slow circles around the lab. "This is probably the least romantic place to dance," Brennan said, lifting her eyes to the snow laden skylights above their heads, shifting so as not to bump her thigh against a steel gurney. Booth blinked slowly, bending his head, a few inches, and pressing a kiss to her lips. Gentle and loving. There was no hurry to their languid kiss, as he held her body against his.

"We make our own romance, Bones," he replied.

"Yes," she said, "we really do."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Hope you like. Let me know.


	33. Even Forever

"I have to tell Angela about the baby," Brennan said, two days after Christmas, while neatly folding sweaters into piles. "She's suspicious and she's my best friend. I was going to tell her before we left for Philadelphia." Booth shook the newspaper, glancing at her from over the top.

"It's a good idea," he agreed. "Angela is shrewd – it won't take her long to make the logical leaps." Brennan sat on the edge of the bed, her hands on her lap. "You'll have to do it today, though. We'll be in Virginia tomorrow. Which reminds me, can you sign a requisition form for me, please?" He gestured to the manila file on the dresser. "Cullen has been on my back, complaining that if the FBI has to pay for your motels during our field trips you'll have to start filling in the necessary documentation." Brennan clicked her tongue.

"Haven't I mentioned my dislike for Bureaucrats before?" she said, rummaging in her cabinet for a pen. "And in all fairness, the Jeffersonian has been invaluable to your investigations since we started working together. You should mention it to Cullen, sometime." Booth chuckled, shaking his head.

"I just do what I'm told, Bones. Unlike you, I don't enjoy pissing the superiors off." Brennan opened the file, her hand hovering over the form.

"Me? Who was the one who _lied_ about a case lead to get me to a house in the middle of nowhere for an afternoon fuck?" Booth maintained an emotionless expression, blinking slowly, deliberately.

"No one found out about that," he said. "So no harm done." Brennan scrawled her name. "Besides, you're costing us a lot of money. Since Goodman decided you were costing _them_ too much." Temperance tossed the pen at his head, crossing her arm.

"I am not costing anyone too much. I am more than worth a few meagre dollars…" She returned to the bed, folding a black cashmere sweater. "Where would you be _without_ me? Huh?" Booth turned unto his side, watching her little hands as they worked with expert efficiency.

"In hell," he said, and she stopped, lifting her eyes. "I'd be lost without you, Bones." She swiped his head, chuckling.

"Exactly! Do you think we'll be back in DC before New Year's Eve? Angela wants me to go to some party – I'm hesitant, but she assures me it will be great fun. Jack's coming." Booth passed his hand across the hardened muscles of his torso in quiet contemplation.

"It depends on how quickly you identify the body, doesn't it? Tell you what, come down to Virginia tomorrow, check everything out and you can take the skeleton back before the thirty first… does that sound fair?" Brennan smiled, touched by his kindness.

"What about you? Don't you have plans for the new year?" Booth shrugged.

"Work. If not, I'll join you and the new couple. What about Zach?" Brennan lifted the pile of sweaters, placing them neatly in the closet.

"He's going north to see his family. Bless him… he misses them so much. He won't be back until after the new year. Jack… he's acting so bizarre. He keeps saying things about the tennis court is covered in snow and if he has to look at another hundred thousand dollar painting from the nineteenth century he's going to go mad. Sometimes," she said, "I think he already is." Booth wondered if perhaps he should explain that Hodgins was in fact a multimillionaire and he was talking about his _own_ tennis court.

He decided it wasn't his secret to tell.

"I agree. The guy's lost his mind. Probably because he's so wrapped up in Angela." Brennan murmured her agreement. "Hey Bones, I have to go pack. Why don't you call Angela, tell her about the baby." He rolled off the bed, tucking the manila folder until his arm and dropping a light kiss to her lips. "I'll drop this into Cullen, do some packing and then I'll be back. Okay?" She smiled, slipping her arms around his waist, watching as his eyes clouded with immediate desire.

"See you soon," she said, her hand brushing his newly formed erection.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Angela fingered the Christmas ball, watching as it's metallic paint caught the light. "It's so unlike you, Bren," she said. "You've never been so…"

"I think the word is 'happy'," Brennan replied, passing a cup of chamomile and honey tea to her friend. "And no, I don't think I have. Booth provides a balance in my life. It's nice. It's comforting." Angela smiled, revelling in the sweetness of it; her best friend, the coolest, most collected woman in the world, brought into the real world of emotions by love.

"I think it's amazing. Booth, the heroic FBI agent… I'd do him." Brennan laughed.

"You're so rude, Angela," she said. "Besides, he's mine."

"My God, Temperance Brennan, defensive over a man? I never thought I'd…" she took a sip of her tea. "Seriously, though, what else could happen to seal your relationship? He's loyal, noble and you're so in love with him. It seems like the two of you have just… connected."

"Angela…"

"And it's as though he worships you. Do you know that? He'd literally bow at your feet if you asked him to…"

"I won't do that. Angela…"

"He's so in love with you," she was swooning.

"I know he is. Listen, Angela…"

"Honey it's-"

"_Angela_, please listen to me for a moment." Her friend stopped, eyes wide, her mouth open with half formed romantic ideas on the tip of her tongue. Her jaw snapped shut, and she straightened in the chair. "Thank you," Brennan said, crossing her legs, hot chamomile tea warming her trembling hands. "I've been meaning to tell you… well… I wanted to tell you that day in my office before Booth came to get me with a… case… umm…" Angela chuckled, the sound warm and comforting, in ways only a friend's could be.

"What's wrong sweetie?" she asked, leaning forward in her chair.

"I'm pregnant, Ange…"

There was a long moment of silence in which Brennan could almost hear her heart beating within her chest. And then there was pandemonium as Angela squealed, leaping from her chair and engulfing Brennan in a hug that took the breath from her lungs.

"Oh my God! Sweetie! This is wonderful!" Brennan giggled.

"It took a long time for me to get used to the idea. I really didn't want a baby. But now, with Booth, it doesn't seem so scary anymore." Angela was grinning, sneaking furtive looks at her friend's still-flat torso. "You can't see it yet!" Brennan joked, spreading her fingers over her belly. There was no evidence that she was pregnant, aside from the tell-tale hardness.

"Well, I thought I had got all the amazing news I could handle this week! Apparently not!" Angela fussed over her friend, making noises of disbelief and delight.

"Why? What other amazing news have you got?" Brennan asked, her interest aroused.

"Oh sweetie, I'll tell you about _that_ another time. So… have you thought of names yet?" To this, Brennan chuckled and rolled her eyes.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"I've come to hate the snow," Brennan said, turning the heating as high as it would go, settling back against her seat as the Booth negotiated their vehicle through the hazardous roads. "Things are so much more simple when the sun is shining." Booth smiled at her.

"We're almost there. Besides, Agent Daniel said this one is right up your alley." Brennan turned her eyes to the powdery fields, arms crossed around her body as she tried to retain heat.

"I've never understood that statement," she said. "What has an alley got to do with anything?" Booth pulled a face, one that reminded her he was on a different plane of thought. He preferred not to analyse absolutely everything.

"You sound like Zach," he said. "It's uncanny." Brennan threw him a look, her hands freezing over her arms. "The sooner we get to the park, get the bones sorted and get back to DC, the better." Booth flicked the radio on, filling the car with static until he turned the knob, tuning into the first station that he encountered. "What did Angela say about the baby?"

Brennan smiled at the memory. "She was thrilled. In fact, thrilled is something of an understatement. She was… overwhelmed." Booth nodded, picturing with great imagery just how Angela Montenegro might have responded to news of a pregnancy. Especially when she was so keen for them to establish a relationship from the beginning.

Stopping at the heavy wrought iron gates of the Woodland Park, Booth killed the engine and admired the lovely old house that was tucked away from the road – a long, white-washed building with dark blue facades, shudders and a arched porch. It was perfect. Stunning in its elegance.

Covered by snow, it looked regal, with a winding pathway that had been cleared and disappeared into the trees. He turned to Brennan, watching as she drank in the image, and he knew she was wondering how a heinous crime could have been committed within the beautiful sanctuary.

He felt guilty for his lies. For his second lie.

"Temperance," he said, turning in his seat. "I haven't been completely honest with you." Her gaze flickered to his, her expression changing – immediate hurt passing within her diamond clear eyes. "I made you sign a requisition form that you didn't need to sign. And when I said I was going to the FBI to give it to Cullen… I wasn't really." Brennan blinked.

"I don't understand…" she whispered, her hands stiff.

"It was a fake. I had carbon paper beneath it… God… I sound so deceitful, don't I?" Brennan's lips parted.

"Yes," she hissed, "you do. What the hell is going on?"

Booth sighed, slipping his hand into his jacket and removing a neatly folded sheet of paper. "I was getting you to sign this, instead." Brennan was afraid to touch it, and stared at it as though it were an infectious piece of diseased tissue. "It's a marriage license, Bones," Booth whispered. "I wanted to surprise you… to give our Christmas an extra special touch."

Brennan ran her eyes over the form, rendered speechless. "I don't understand… why couldn't you just have asked?"

"Because then you'd have known…" Booth said.

"Known _what_?" Temperance felt her hands shake as she looked at her signature, transferred in dark navy blue by the carbon paper. The signature that she'd used to sign off a fake requisition form!

"We're not here to investigate a case, Bones. I was in Philadelphia with you and I realised that, even if I spend forever with you… even if we are together for our whole lifetime, it's not long enough. Forever will _never_ be long enough for me. I want to make a verbal commitment to you because I love you." She felt her throat tighten, her eyes glaze with disbelief and watery emotion. "Zach isn't really with his family, Temperance. He's in there, with Angela and Hodgins, Goodman and the rest of our friends with a registrar who is waiting to marry us. Right now. Today. If you will."

She felt the breath whoosh from her lungs.

"I don't understand…" she said, pressing her fingertips to her trembling lips.

"I'm not sure I can explain it any more clearly. I needed you signature to obtain a marriage license. Will you, Bones? Will you marry me?"

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

I was inspired by something that happened to me a few years ago in the hotel I work in. There were two guests staying and the woman told her partner that they were in Belfast for a vacation and she had arranged a wedding for them at the City Hall (which in Belfast is a very old, very intricate building – Google it) and he didn't know until he arrived there that it was his wedding day and she had flown all their family and friends over! It was a very lovely thought… I hope you like it…


	34. Cursed by Logic, Blessed by Love

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **None of these characters are mine.

**Rating: **This is rated T.

**A/N: **I hope everyone likes.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Angela Montenegro had never felt quite so nervous in her life.

Brennan was a fairly unpredictable woman. If she had her logical brain in gear, she'd find a million reasons to refuse Booth's proposal, and if she did, Angela wasn't sure how anything would ever be the same again.

Not after the effort Booth had gone to, arranging something so astoundingly romantic. He'd planned the event in a few short days, spending hours trying to find an available registrar, paying a fortune to hire the luxurious Woodland House for the entire day, even going as far as giving Angela whatever money she required to pick a suitable outfit for Brennan, should she have agreed.

Standing in the wedding room, she saw their car, and pressed her nose to the glass, praying that Brennan would allow her love for Booth to take precedence over the logic she held so dear to her. It was a long shot, for ordinarily, Brennan would never sacrifice the security blanket that was her rationality.

To her right, a fire crackled within the wide, opulent fireplace, and outside it had begun to snow again. It was perfect. Picturesque and so eloquent that Angela felt weepy at the romance of it.

"Do you think she'll say yes?" Jack asked, his hand dropping to the small of her back. Angela sighed, crossing her arms over her torso, watching as she saw movement within their car.

"I hope so, Jack," she whispered. "I really hope so." Hodgins stepped closer, the warmth of him reminded her of exactly why she liked having him around. He was kind, considerate and when she needed to be reassured, he was there to help. Obliging to ensure she was happy.

"She will," he said with soft determination. "She's a very intelligent woman. Sometimes Booth is obnoxious and arrogant, but no one has ever loved her or accepted her the way he does." Angela dropped her head to the window again, his hand falling upon her shoulder. "Don't worry, Angela," Jack said. "It's their love."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"Booth…" Brennan swiped her hand across her forehead. "This is a paramount event. Have you thought about it? Have you really considered the consequence of this…?" He brushed a single fingertip across her cheek, smudging the lone tear that marred the perfection of her lovely features.

"What I feel for you can only have good consequence," Brennan drank him in, the mocha dark gaze of his eyes, his certain smile, the way his fingers cupped her jaw, stroking her face, searing with love and passion. There was elegant perfection in the way he loved her. The way she felt when she looked into his eyes and saw something so powerful, it almost blew her away.

Yet she was gripped by fear. She imagined that one day he'd wake up, unable to cope with the complex person she was, and leave. Her biggest fear, was losing Seeley Booth. She felt nauseous as the clock ticked in her mind. What should she reply? What should she do? Was he making a mistake? What if his assumptions had been wrong? So many marriages ended in disaster…

"Booth…" she said, shaking her head slowly. "Oh… Booth…"

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Booth climbed the stairs to the first floor, walking the corridor slowly, trying to remembering everything he saw as he did, for he'd never be in the place he was, ever again.

His feet sank into the plush beige carpet, the ivory and gold wallpaper made the corridor look as though it went on forever; high carved ceilings, a round chandelier that hung like an upside down cake, three tiers, with a single pointed crystal at the bottom, catching the muted light. It sparkled.

The heavy oak doors, painted white, made him think he could have been in Heaven. Everything looked perfect as he approached the room at the end of the hallway, and listened to the voices from within, speculating whether there would or would not be a wedding taking place today.

His watch told him it was one thirty and the registrar said she'd stay until two fifteen – and then she'd have to leave. He sighed, pressing his head to the doorframe, unnoticed by the crowd that had gathered. He watched Jack, arm draped around Angela, murmuring words of quiet reassurances, and Zach sitting in the front row with Sid. The registrar standing behind a dark mahogany pulpit, her head bent as she read over the service.

He saw his friend Hank from the military and his wife, and he caught a whisper of Hank's approval in Booth's decision to finally 'settle down and relinquish his guilt demons'.

The fire crackled within a sweeping marble fireplace, and two vases filled with simple ivory Vandella roses scented the air, sweet and reminiscent. He thought their colour complimented the falling snow, perfectly and mused that, if he had picked anything right in his preparations for what was supposed to be his wedding day, it was those flowers – stunning in their simple elegance. Their petals reminded him his Temperance's skin.

Slipping back, away from the wedding room, he heaved a heavy sigh, dropping his eyes to the floor before turning on his heel, striding down the corridor to the third room on the right, before disappearing inside.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The registrar glanced at her watch, the golden hand slipping unto two pm, a nervous twitch tingling at her spine.

Seeley Booth, the would-be groom was playing a very dangerous trick – one that could easily backfire and with only fifteen minutes left before she had to leave, she was beginning to feel as though perhaps today was not his lucky day. Which was a shame, for when he came to see her a few days earlier, she'd been taken with him – endeared by the soft way in which he spoke of the woman he wanted to surprise. He regaled her with stories and anecdotes that made her smile, and even prompted her to agree to his outlandish request.

Not to mention that the Winchester family – the owners of the fabulous house they stood in, were intensely private about their home. It had surprised her that they'd agreed to open their doors for a wedding – especially so soon after Christmas. Even if the family rarely stepped over the threshold of their enormous house, it was still no small feat.

Resting her elbows on the pulpit, she swept her eyes over the small congregation, a collection of friends that formed an unlikely bunch. Each person harboured worried expressions, none totally at ease. She understood this discomfort, for despite not even knowing the couple, there was a niggling worry inside.

Tapping her pen against the pulpit, she checked her watch again as the hand moved on to two minutes past.

Things were not looking good.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Temperance Brennan felt something gnawing at her insides, filling her with trepidation and sickening fear. She wondered if her decision was the right one, for as she recalled the expression on Booth's face, the worry doubled, and her chest tightened as though someone were pressing a boot to her sternum.

It suffocated her, making her knees weak as she stood, her eyes watching as the slim silver watch on her wrist told her it was four minutes and thirty seconds past two.

Her cheeks felt warm and she pressed her fingertips to her fevered skin, wondering at her warmth despite the frigid winter temperatures. Amazing what love, confusion and fear could do to a body. With her heart pumping so hard, she was surprised she hadn't overheated completely.

When she was a kid, she had imagined a wedding to be so different. She had imagined that she would have planned it, right down to the last detail, her dress, her sparkly princess tiara, ivory shoes, curled hair, pretty floral bouquet, and her groom – all thought out.

She would lie in bed with her stereo playing romantic songs of the late eighties, imagining that her dad would walk her down an infinite aisle, and she'd have maids, dressed in silken dresses, and her husband-to-be would be a knight in shining armour, devastatingly handsome with a wide, white grin when he turned at the alter and seen her standing, eloquently beautiful and filled with hopes and dreams.

It was funny how life sometimes didn't work out as planned. In fact, it rarely did. All her romantic dreams were before she saw her family ripped apart by murder and before her ideas about marriage were stamped out by fear of loss. She hadn't ever felt a desire to be married because there were so many damn things that could easily go wrong in life. It was as fragile as thin ice and she didn't relish the thought of falling through that thin ice into a bottomless lake of grief.

Sometimes she felt like that anyway.

In fact there were many times she'd felt as though she were drowning in sorrow. Until he'd reached into the water and pulled her out. Made her breathe again.

Why had she been so afraid to say yes, then? Why has she shaken her head with slow contemplation, watching the way his expression changed, filled with sorrow and sadness. Why had she not leapt into his arms at once, exclaiming 'yes' and promises of eternal love?

She was cursed by logic, rendered incapable of normal functioning and grasping true happiness when it was offered to her on a silver plate. She had to sit there, mulling over her thoughts, wallowing in her doubts, recalling those adolescent nights when she was comforted by the romantic words from her head-phones and when logic didn't play such an enormous part in her life.

Would it have been different, had her parents not died? Would she still have had so many foolish reservations about happiness? The truth was, Temperance Brennan wasn't even sure perfect happiness existed. It was irrational to be comforted by the prospect. Life had a cruel habit of pulling the rug from under her. And how she was finally feeling something that she could call happiness, she didn't want to jinx it by leaping head first into a marriage commitment.

Yet, despite all her reservations, she stood there anyway. Lingering outside the doorway, her hand on the heavy brass doorknob, her heart hammering inside her chest as she wondered what lay beyond. What awaited her? She realised that the door was a metaphorical symbolism of life itself. She never knew what waited, just beyond the line of foreseeable knowledge.

She'd never know for sure if Booth would one day leave her. Or be killed in the line of duty. Just like she couldn't know for certain that she'd be a good mother and always be successful in her chosen career.

Turning the knob, she sighed.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The room waited with bated breath as the door creaked and opened, revealing the corridor to their greedy eyes, and the slender frame of Temperance, shoulders squared and spine straight. She wore her hair in a small clip, smoothed back from her face, and a sweeping ivory dress that reached her feet. She smiled a little, rose-like in her elegance.

Booth turned from where he stood at the top of the makeshift aisle, dressed in a black suit and a muted gold tie, a ivory Vandella rose tucked into the lapel of his jacket. His eyes turned black when he saw her, a vision of perfection, standing in the hallway, her fingers wrapped around a small posy of roses.

"Well," the registrar said, her lips pulled back into a smile. "Won't you come in Temperance?"

As she stepped forward, the satiny toe of her shoes peaking out beneath the sweeping gown she wore, Booth felt as though something had reached inside his chest and curled around his heart, as she moved through the chairs, two tiny diamonds twinkling in her ears, her blue eyes darkened to the colour of ripe blueberries.

Her shoulders bare and milky, her throat elegant and long, he thought there was perhaps nothing in the world more perfect than she.

When she stood next to him, looking up at his face, he smiled too. "Thank you for coming," he said, having been quite sure that she wouldn't. He'd told her he'd leave her to think – give her the option and had slipped from the car, into the regal house. He had thought, for a long moment, that she would drive away, turn down his proposal and banish the thought of happiness from her mind because it wasn't logical.

But as she stood before him, he felt foolish for having doubted her. Doubted them.

"I wouldn't be anywhere else," she said and he reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"You look so beautiful, Temperance."

The registrar cleared her throat and all eyes turned to her. "Shall we begin?" she asked, pointedly watching Booth as he dipped his head in ascent.

"Yes," he said. "I think we're finally ready."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

She loves him too much.

Hope everyone liked.


	35. Consummation

**Title: **This is Life

**Disclaimer: **I don't own them.

**Rating: **Look at the title of my chapter and work it out – M.

**A/N: **I am beginning to feel I have undertaken an emotional endeavour with this story, for sometimes, I feel as though I am on the outside, looking in, wondering how they'd feel if they really were in the situations I have put them in. I didn't have the heart to have Brennan say no – and I don't think she would have. I am fairly certain she'd have had doubts, played the thoughts over in her mind – but after everything that's happened… well… I get engrossed sometimes.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"I feel a tingle down my spine, every time I think about it," Booth said, sitting on the edge of the window sill, the darkening December sky dropping another coating of snow on the extensive gardens outside.

"When you think about what?" Brennan asked, sitting in the rocking chair by the fire, a brilliant diamond and platinum ring catching the flames. Booth turned his gaze on her, hotly seductive and filled with lurid thoughts about what they ought to be doing, right at that moment. She felt goosebumps prickle her skin, and a smile washed over her features.

"Every time I think that you're my wife," he explained. "I keep telling myself over and over again, wondering if it'll ever sink in." She blinked, a twinkle in her eye as she watched him with naked love. There was no need to hide it. Not to anyone. She'd married him. Taken the leap, risked her heart and won. There was no doubt, now, as she sat in the elegant master bedroom of the fabulous house, that she'd made the right decision.

In the lounge, their friends drank merrily, with Zach perhaps a little too drunk on champagne and Jack openly leering over Angela. It felt nice, surrounded by their friends, to admit that life, with all it's hardships, had brought them together. It felt good.

"How did you know that I wouldn't stand you up?" Brennan asked, lifting herself out of the chair, prowling towards him like a stealthy cat. His interest was immediately aroused, and he turned, opening his arms to her. He unclipped her hair, watching as the fiery tresses cascaded forth, framing her raspberry blush cheeks.

"I didn't," he said, a fingertip tracing her collarbone, to the heaving mounds of her breasts, held tight by the pinching dress she wore. "But I was willing to risk it." She sank to her knees, gazing up at him in the same way an awe-struck teenager gazed at a handsome new boyfriend. She was besotted.

"You always say the right things," she said, stroking her hand over the hard, tautened muscle of his thigh, noting how it flexed beneath her tentative, almost hesitant touch. "So, are you going to take your new wife to bed, or leave her horny on the floor?"

Booth threw his head back, releasing a genuine laugh that rumbled within his chest, gruff and equipped with a pitch that made her muscles weaken and began a chain reaction of chemical responses within her body. She fingered the silken gold tie, pulling it away from his throat. He swallowed hard, surprised at the intensity in her darkened stare – and rendered speechless by the amount of brazen, desperate love he saw there.

She flicked the buttons on his shirt, one by one, lingering momentarily to pass her fingertips over the smooth, hard flesh she encountered beneath the cotton. He closed his eyes, pressing the back of his head against the window, content to bask in her sultry, exploring ministrations.

Parting the folds of his shirt, she examined each hardened line of his abdomen, watching in fascination as the muscles twisted and shuddered beneath the silken, bronzed skin, as if they were made hypersensitive by her touch. She smiled, delighted by this, pressing her lips to his belly, her nimble fingers unbuckling the heavy belt he wore, her palm grazing the stiff column of his erection, straining against his pants. She prolonged her own anticipation, for she wanted to touch him, wanted to feel the hot length of him, in her hand, inside her.

His fingers grazed the top of her breast and her body reacted to him, spearing jolts of unbridled need coursing through her, settling between her thighs as a warm pool of nectar. He shifted forward, sinking his fingers into her hair, the soft touches tickling her skin, making her light-headed with desire.

"Stand," he commanded and she was powerless to refuse, her legs watery as she got to her feet, arms by her side. He gave a lazy smile, resting his wayward hands on her hips and tilting her body, exposing the back of her dress and the smooth milky skin of her back. Passing his lips over the base of her neck, he unzipped the dress, all the way to the top of her ass, before the silk and chiffon dropped to the floor, exposing the entirety of her body to his rapacious eyes.

She turned and his lips touched her belly, his mind musing that, within the body of this magnificent woman, his child grew, conceived by moments of blinded passion and pure, unadulterated love. The thought made his heart swell and filled him with a different kind of passion – an insatiable need.

Brennan delved into his hair, cupping his skull and urging his roaming mouth upwards, praying that he'd take one of her heavy breasts between his lips and put her aching need to rest. She felt the familiar fire and it needed extinguished.

When he took a tumescent nipple into the furnace-like depths of his mouth, passing his tongue across the puckered flesh, her nails dug into his skin and his teeth nipped at her in punishing reprimand. Her hips rotated, stilled only by his sturdy hands as they explored her thighs, her buttocks, before his left hand reached up, massaging her other breast.

"Booth…" she said, stepping back, his mouth releasing her with an audible 'pop'. He admired the succulent red nub he'd created, and craved the taste of it once more. She stepped towards the bed, removing her underwear and standing before him, gloriously naked, unabashed and noticeably horny

When he undressed himself he saw the shimmering slickness of her own juices, coating her inner thighs and felt his penis jerk in automatic response to her. "Temperance," he growled, "Jesus Christ…"

She touched her own breasts, drawing a moan from within her lips, the sound urging him forward, pulling her into his arms, his mouth coming down on hers with the hardness desperation of a starving man. He laid her on the bed, parting her knees and dropping his head to explore the syrupy arousal that had gathered in response to him. He tasted her, encouraged by her moans, his tongue delving inside her molten depths until she trembled around his lips, sobbing his name.

He knelt over her, teasing her opening with his penis, watching as her hips jerked, seeking his warmth, an unappeasable need growing within her. Temperance wasn't content to have him feast on her. She wanted to sheath him, to surround him with the liquid walls of her womb.

When he delved inside, cupping her breasts in his hand, she threw her head back.

"Fuck…" she said, neither of them bothered by the headboard that banged against the wall, a sure sign of their frantic search for release.

"Yeah…" he agreed, her legs hooked around his waist, urging him deeper within her, until the entire length of him was surrounded by her molten hot walls, his pelvis hitting her clitoris with each rhythmic thrust. She sought out his mouth, pulling him over her, his thumbs drawing tight, firm circles over her nipples while her muscles tightened around him, milking him.

When he came, the heat of him drew her in, her orgasm bringing her voice to high octave, and he silenced her with a stifling kiss.

Breathless and engulfed in her arms, Booth sucked a breath into his lungs, catching the heady scent of their fevered lovemaking. "What the fuck was that…?" he said, his cheek pressed to the cushiony flesh of her breasts.

"I believe," Brennan said, her heart hammering against his ear, "that is called consummation."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.


	36. Star Light, Star Bright

_**Title: **This is Life_

_**Disclaimer: **Not mine. From chapter one to what is now chapter thirty six – I have never had any claim over any character. Even the ones that are mine, I cannot copyright so, hey! No money made here!_

_**Rating: **I am going to rate this chapter an T. _

_**A/N: **I think this would be an astute place to end this story. I have the characters where I want them, which means I cannot ask for much more. I have topped my maximum word count, got four hundred and eighty reviews, thus far, and have had so much fun writing this. The two people I would most like to thank is BonesDBchippie for reading every chapter and correcting all my mistakes – she's been amazing and patient and so reliable. Plus when it comes to a shrewd eye, there isn't a better lady for the job, even when it takes me a million years to update my chapters. Second is fellow fan-fic writer, Jaed, who has become something of a kindred spirit for her understanding of what it feels like to write and how, even when the characters are owned by someone else, for the words we do write, they're ours. Good luck in the rest of your story, babe._

_A final word for an anonymous reviewer whose name consists only of: B 3B – This chapter is, is set on their honeymoon as requested, however I thought the last chapter was fitting for my final sex scene. _

_Anyway – for the final chapter…_

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

_Star light… star bright…_

The sky over Antigua looked like velvet.

Velvet that was sprinkled with fine, dusty glitter.

The mesh hammock, strung between two curving palm trees, swung in the sultry breeze, rocking with a motion that almost made her sleep, a colourful, non-alcoholic cocktail in hand. With an arm draped around her shoulders, a soft hand brushing over her bicep, any concerns she might have had, evaporated away, lost amidst the stringed guitar and heavy brass drums in the distance.

Ten feet away, the ocean, foamy and whispery, brushed against the sand with a predictable and constant lull. She shifted, rocking the hammock, the enormous palms creaking beneath the strain.

"It's almost New Year," she said, lifting her hand to stroke the dark, warm length of his arm, surrounding her like a protective barrier. "I couldn't have imagined, when I was talking with Angela only a few days ago about her New Years Eve party that I'd be in Antigua, on a beach sipping…" she dropped her eyes to the tall, slender glass, peering into the scarlet red depths, "I don't actually know what this is," she admitted. Behind her, a low and titillating rumble rose within his chest.

"Does it taste good?" he asked, the sound of his humour and the honeyed smoothness of his laughter proving to be an instant aphrodisiac.

"Amazing," she confirmed, nodding her head.

"Then it doesn't matter." Brennan murmured her agreement as his lips touched her head, stroking the smooth milky skin. "Do you like it here?" Booth asked, his fingertips moving along her arms sent a network of goosebumps prickling along her flesh. She trembled beneath the slow, deliberate caresses.

"Is this where you suggest we never go home?" she joked, tilting her head far enough to press a kiss to his jaw. Booth listened to music for a moment, the local beats cascading through the air, surrounding him, drawing him further and further away from the city he called home. He shrugged.

"No. That would be illogical, Temperance," he said, a small jest evident within his voice. "It's nice being here, that's all." She hummed, draining her glass and plucking a ripe, glossy cherry off the top. "I've been on vacations before… but never like this." Brennan chuckled, sucking the cherry between her lips and biting into the sweet, juicy flesh.

"That's reassuring. I'd be concerned if you'd been on a honeymoon before." Booth passed his palm over her hair, smoothing the vibrant tresses, the silky curls flattening beneath his attention. "It is very nice," she conceded, passing her hand over her torso, imagining the baby that grew within. Her husband's baby. Her heart began a series of rapid palpations each time she thought about it.

"It's four minutes to midnight," Booth whispered, tilting his watch, catching the light of the flaming torch that was dug into the sand. She watched the sands slide forth, moving towards the start of a new year. Booth seemed to read her thoughts. "It's been quite a year for us, huh?" he said, his arm tightening around her for a moment.

"The hardest twelve of my life," Brennan said, mentally replaying the agonies they had endured and the limits to which their love was tested. They kept swimming and surfaced at the other end – sometimes it felt as though they might drown completely, but it seemed so perfect that, when they were finally washed ashore, however metaphorical it may have been, they landed in a place as beautiful and as wonderful as Antigua.

"We're happy now, right?" Booth tasted the corner of her eye, his tongue touching upon a rogue tear.

"More than ever."

Above their heads, a white chalky line smeared the sky and Booth pointed. "Look Bones," he said as the star sparkled, fading into the velveteen blackness – exquisite and brilliant. In the city it was extremely rare to see something of such stunning beauty. It was far too bright, but lying beneath the pin-pricked sky, there were many spectacular sights to be seen, now. "Make a wish…" she smiled, wondering at the age old tradition and where something so irrational as wishing upon a star or dropping a quarter into well came from. Where did the rumour originate from?

As the fine dust of the meteorite disappeared completely, she shook her head.

"No," she said, "I don't need to wish. I have everything I want." Brennan felt him smile against her cheek and the emotion choked her throat. For once in her life, she had no unfulfilled desires because everything else faded into obscurity since Booth had put her life into perspective. She had love. She had him. A falling star was not likely to offer her anything else.

"Amen to that," Booth replied as the sky exploded in a contrast of colours; red and orange, pink and yellow, showering the pretty little island with bright sparks as a drum beat chimed out twelve distinct beats, one after the other.

When all that remained of the celebratory fireworks was the smoky trail, Brennan turned her cheek to his chest, his breath brushing her skin like an erotic kiss. She touched her lips to his, the taste of him lingering against her tongue; spicy and distinct.

"Happy new year, Seeley," she said.

"Happy new year, Temperance," he replied, his eyes falling closed in perfect, unadulterated contentment as the Caribbean drums continued to beat a song of love.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

_Well, there we go. All done._

_Since this story began, Brennan and Booth have been to;_

_Vermont,_

_Ireland,_

_Philadelphia,_

_Virginia and_

_Antigua _

_Please forgive any inaccuracies and I hope everyone enjoyed. I might do a stand-alone for when their little baby is born. Let me know if it appeals to anyone. Until then, thanks for all your support. _


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